Tag Archives: fun poems for children

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Mixed-up Banquet

 

“What’s for dinner?” asked the snail from the rusty garden pail.

“Some lettuce and banana,” cried the skinny, young Iguana.

“The compost heap smells great … Hurry up! You’re running late.”

“I can’t go any faster,” wailed the snail as Ig raced past her.

 

“What’s for dinner?” asked the kid as he paddled near a squid.

“Some shrimp and little fish,” said the squid. “A tasty dish.

The water’s warm and fine. Come on in so we can dine.”

“The surf’s too deep and rough, so I’ll fetch my brothers Gruff.”

 

“What’s for dinner?” barked the dog as she raced towards a hog.

“I’m slurping applesauce. Can you guess the second course?”

“A Dagwood Dog or two? I don’t know. Give me a clue.”

“It’s frozen, in a cuppy. Starts with ‘S’ and ends with ‘Puppie’.”

 

“What’s for dinner?” purred the cat on the dusty, worn-out mat.

“Swiss cheese and raisin toast,” squeaked the mouse beside a post.

“I’d rather catch fresh meat,” yawned the cat. “A little treat.

My tummy cries for food and my eyes are set on ___.”

 

Lynette Oxley

 

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Lynette said: I wanted the poem to have internal rhyme and be a guessing game.

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Sunday Dinner

My Nan grew up in wartime

And thought nothing goes to waste

And sometimes Sunday dinner

Wasn’t really to my taste

 

I loved to go to her house

And most of the meals were great

But at times I really struggled

To eat the food upon my plate

 

Her Shepherd’s Pie was awesome

And I loved cold meats and cheese

She made Special Fried Potatoes

That always made me say “More please”

 

But every now and then

The dish that truly gave me shivers

I couldn’t even stand the smell

Of Nan’s boiled chicken livers

 

I pushed them all around the plate

And covered them with sauce

Tried to mix them with potatoes

But it didn’t help of course

 

In the end I had to say

There really was one choice

And though I knew it would be hard

I mustered up my voice

 

“Nan – I don’t like boiled chicken livers”

 

There was a moment’s silence

And my eyes were opened wide

Nan looked at me and gently smiled

“Just push them to the side”

 

After that no chicken livers

Were served at Sunday dinner

And we had all the other lovely things

My tastebuds were the winner

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

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Out the Gate

 

May-Belle, Marlene, Miss Moo and Flo

were dairy cows of Farmer Joe.

They all agreed that he was great,

‘cos Joe forgot to shut the gate.

 

They knew that cows should really stay

inside the field just eating hay.

But down the lane they liked to stroll,

the rubbish tip their only goal.

 

The things that people threw away

were great for cows on ‘dress-up’ day.

Marlene found dance shoes for her hooves

and danced some really groovy moves.

 

May-Belle decided she’d wear lace

which she placed round her ears and face.

Miss Moo dressed as a movie star

in fake-fur cape all la-de-da.

 

And Flo? She thought it might be fun

to wear an orange cardboard sun.

But then she had some rotten luck,

it slithered past her ears and stuck.

 

She gave the sun a mighty nudge,

but it stayed put; it would not budge.

Then all too soon the time had come

to leave the tip and all the fun.

 

They strolled back home in fancy dress

while cars all got into a mess.

Alarmed at such a scary sight,

they all drove off the road in fright.

 

Then as the cows all neared the shed

they watched old Joe just scratch his head.

He checked his watch and stamped the ground,

annoyed his cows were not around.

 

Then finally he saw the girls,

Marlene out front and dancing twirls.

“This lark must stop,” said Joe quite gruff.

“There’s no more room for all this stuff.

 

Cows don’t dress up or dance or play.

The paddock’s where you need to stay.”

The girls all winked and gave a grin.

If gates aren’t shut, cows don’t stay in.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Previously published in The Looking Glass magazine in Ireland.  It’s also on the CKT Website under Caroline’s writing portfolio.
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #21

Caroline said: It’s not directly related to a lovely, historical castle but open gates do encourage wandering and that’s what my poem is about.

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Phineas McGonagall

Phineas McGonagall was very strange indeed,

For the manner of his feeding and for where he kept his feed.

Upon his head, he wore a wig of lamington and cheese.

His beard was full of ‘little boys’ that dangled to his knees.

Among his friends I must say there were many most disgusted:

And so would you be if you knew just where he kept his custard.

To critics Phiny simply smiled and said, ‘Now look here sonny!’

Stamped a dusty boot from which erupted blue gum honey.

‘With a narnie in me pocket and some damper in me daks,

I’m never short of tucker as I tred life’s sandy tracks.

From Alice Springs to Zanthus I have never ‘ad the munchies.

-Thanks mostly to me grundies where I keep a stash of crunchies!-

And I betcha when I cark it and am carried out feet first,

The tinnies in me pocket slake the undertaker’s thirst!’

Alys Jackson

 

  • Alys is a regular contributor to The School Magazine and has just won the 2017 Award for Poetry at the Henry Lawson Festival of Arts. 

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Croc-o-diner

The crocodile has every right

to fall in love or have a fight.

He likes his home.  He wants to stay

and have a feed and sleep and play.

 

But better not get in his way

or YOU won’t see another day!

 

So when you travel our great land

respect this resident so grand

and DON’T go swimming where he hides

among the rivers, banks and tides.

 

It’s not HIS fault that tourists may

taste just like croccy’s take-away!

Celia Berrell
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

 

 

 

 

Celia said: My husband is considering working in a remote coastal location in Far North Queensland where it is possible to find crocodiles lurking under the buildings.  To all the people who work up there, PLEASE be careful and keep yourselves off their dinner menu!

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The Feely Bag

 

What’s inside the feely bag?

Please tell us what you feel.

 

A slimy, slippery frog perhaps,

That makes you squirm and reel.

 

A ragged, worn-out kitchen sponge,

That’s squelchy, smelly, wet.

 

Or Cody’s wriggly garden worms,

The biggest he could get.

 

Do bristles scrape your fingertips,

When lifting something up?

 

Is it a nailbrush, Stickle Brick,

Some Velcro in a cup?

 

It may be soft with rubber wings,

And live inside a cave.

 

A tingly touch might make you scared

To guess you must be brave.

 

Lynette Oxley

 

  • In response to Poetry Prompt #18

 

Lynette said: I wrote about preschool children who are willing to put their hands in a Feely Bag and guess what the contents might be. This activity promotes language development.

 

 

 

 

 

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Montague Shoe

 

Have you heard the story of Montague Shoe?

He fitted a left foot — ’twas all he could do.

 

But the shoe that fitted the right foot was lost,

So into the trashcan poor Monty was tossed.

 

But there in the trash Montague found

A shoe for a right foot — ’twas perfectly sound.

 

They became a new pair, one black and one blue,

And that was the story of Montague Shoe.

 

James Aitchison

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What is Red?

 

I strolled in the woods,

Wearing a red hood.

Looking cool in the neighbourhood.

 

 

I knock, knocked at Granny’s door.

I heard a terrible snore.

Just like a dinosaur roar.

 

Poor granny lay dead still.

Given a sleeping pill.

I’m no dill.

 

 

My eyes could see

You were dressed to trick me.

I pretended all was as it should be.

 

 

In the big four-poster bed you lay,

Hoping I would play.

But this was my day to make you pay.

 

 

All was not what it seemed.

Your sharp teeth gleamed.

Showing you for who you are was my dream.

 

 

A mean cold stare,

Laid you bare.

Come closer you dared.

 

I had to be brave

To save poor granny from the grave.

Coming your way was a shock wave.

 

 

I may be sweet and dressed in red

But you should be filled with dread.

That isn’t Granny in the sickbed.

 

 

I asked the secret code word of you

You looked blue

You had no clue.

 

 

Three letters please

Don’t be a tease.

I can see you freeze

 

 

Tell me now

Stop wrinkling your brow

On your nose ‘kapow!’

 

The code word is red.

Your face is red.

You run with dread.

 

Sharing is caring

Your red face is laid bare

For now there is no one you can scare.

 

Karen Hendriks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The dog went out in the sunshine

And soaked up all the rays

It looked up into the sky

And barked ” What a beautiful day”

 

The cat went out in the sunshine

And pranced around a bit

Turned around and went inside

In the window sill to sit

 

The dog stayed out in the sunshine

In circles chasing his tail

He was not going back inside

Sun rain or hail

 

The cat stayed in the window sill

Watching the world go by

Grinning at the silly dog

A scratch a lick a sigh

  Jeanie Axton
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #15

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THE MUSIC BOX

 

Tea for two, and a biscuit with Granny

giggles and games, I recall there were many

but clearest of all,

I recall the small music box.

Hidden inside, a tiny ballerina

waiting to dance there, in front of her mirror

at my beck and call

once I had unclipped the locks.

Lifting the lid, I would take a peak under

up she would pop, not so much as a blunder

though not very tall

she would stretch to the sky

pirouettes fashioned on blue satin lining

tutu pure white, in the limelight, there shining

I somehow recall

just for Granny and I

© Allan Cropper
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #16