I poked a purple platypus
So playfully I prodded
It peered out of a pumpkin patch
it winked at me and nodded
The platypus was at a loss
no reason was there known
why he was in a pumpkin patch
and not his river home
I gently pushed him in a box
this muddled monotreme
and set him free to swim again
down at our local stream
There once was a family named Bear
Who thought they had nothing to wear.
While eating their oats
They remembered their coats
And decided to go to the fair.
The number of Bears you would see
Was just a small family of three.
There was Mother and Dad
With a baby they had
And they lived in a house by a tree.
They went to the fair to have fun,
But their time there had hardly begun
When they each said: “I’m hot!”
For it seems they forgot
That their fur coats held heat in the sun.
“We’d better go home,” they all said.
“Let’s finish our porridge instead.”
(If only they knew
A young girl was there too,
Who was sleeping in Baby Bear’s bed!)
As soon as they opened the door,
They saw that their bowls had held more.
Some porridge not there!
One broken small chair!
But a bigger surprise was in store.
For then the whole family Bear
Were wanting to search everywhere.
When they saw Baby’s bed
Held a young girl instead
They growled: “That is really unfair!”
Their guest got straight up with a shock.
(The Bears had neglected to knock).
She ran out the door
And they saw her no more
While the Bears quickly fitted a lock!
Monty says: I decided I’d like to try to retell, in verse, a condensed and slightly embellished version of a story about a family many children would know well.
One day I saw a bottle that was lying on the sand.
I asked: “Why are you lying?” Then I grabbed it with my hand.
The bottle made no answer and it gave a glassy stare:
It clearly felt it had a right to spend time lying there.
I saw a drip form on its lip and thought it was a tear,
Which seemed to say: “Just go away and leave me lying here.”
But I’d been taught that lying was a serious sort of sin,
So straight away, without delay, the liar went in the bin!
Monty says: The idea of using word play for this poem came while working on another poem in response to the same prompt.
Patrick Platypus’s
Work was arduous
For he was trying to remove a pumpkin
From his hole where it had sunken.
He asked help from Myrtle the turtle
And her face went really purple
When she pushed and prodded
But her effort was dogged
And together they moved the pumpkin
From his hole where it had sunken.
A Halloween party was held near the creek.
Preparing the costumes took almost a week.
Several koalas in purple were cloaked.
A curled up echidna was prodded and poked
into a hollowed out pumpkin shell, where
she peacefully slept and was quite unaware
that first prize went to platypus dressed in his skin.
No costume was needed for this guy to win.
Oops!
I’ve got my brother’s lunchbox
With The Wiggles on the lid,
He must have picked up mine instead
(He’s just a little kid.)
So Charlie’s got my health bar
And my favourite yoghurt snack,
And I’ve got little kiddie lunch –
Too late to change it back.
I could go and see the teacher,
But she’ll say, “Don’t bother me,”
I guess I’m stuck with Charlie’s lunch,
I’ll be half starved by three.
Here we go….what is this stuff?
One tin of custard pears,
Two egg and lettuce sandwiches
Cut into tiny squares,
Three cherry drops with jelly tops,
Four skinny carrot sticks,
Five cubes of watermelon, no,
You’d better make that six.
And right down at the bottom is-
What’s this! A chocolate crunch!
WOW!
Where’s my place? I need some space,
I’m having Charlie’s lunch.
I’ll tell you the trouble with bubbles:
They burst like a punctured balloon
As they fall on a sharp piece of rubble,
Or they fail on their flight to the moon.
It’s useless to try to collect them.
They’re not like a coin or a stamp.
For the hand that you raise to protect them
You’ll soon find is feeling quite damp.
Yet bubbles, you’d better believe it,
Can actually be lots of fun.
You can catch them and snatch them
And quickly despatch them
Until you have burst every one.
You can chase them all over your garden.
You can watch them drift over a wall.
Though you run like a hare,
As they’re mostly just air,
When you search you’ll find nothing at all!
Mish and Mash
I love to cook a mish and mash
A pineapple avocado smash
Cranberry and potato soup
A pea and parsnip ice-cream scoop
A pepper zucchini chocolate slice
Special strawberry chilli rice
Pizza topped with jelly beans
Devil’s food cake served with greens.
I love to cook a mish and mash
Dinner’s done now – got to dash.
Jessica said: Mish and Mash is my response to 2016 poetry prompt #45 (Food). This poem was inspired by the ‘cooking’ my siblings and I used to do as children, where any ingredients we could find were thrown together in the mixing bowl, with varied results.
Jumping, biting, annoying,
Sneaky little flea.
Scritch, scratch, scritch,
I have a terrible itch.
How do I ditch this itch?
A flea on board,
Becomes a terrible game.
Flea twister is no fun,
Trying to find the little biter.
Take off your clothes,
And jump into the sea,
Swim, dive, and float,
Surf a few waves.
No more itch,
Wash those clothes,
Peace at last,
No more sneaky little flea.
The photo man’s getting quite hot in the face,
he really is looking a mess.
He’s spent a whole hour trying to get us in place
but he hasn’t had any success.
Annabelle’s tripped over Christopher’s chair
and Bethany’s started to bleat
’Cause Ben spat his chewing gum into her hair
after stomping on both of her feet.
Emma keeps poking her tongue out at Rose,
Alison’s taking a nap.
The girls in the front are adjusting their bows
and won’t keep their hands in their lap.
Tom’s spilled the drink he’s been secretly slurping
all over the back of my neck
and someone above me keeps farting and burping.
The photo man’s looking a wreck!
He’s glaring at me and I wish I could hide,
he’s just about out of his mind.
But it’s hard to keep both of my hands by my side
when I’m poked in the ribs from behind.
We’ve finally stopped all the wriggles and squeals
but I’m not sure the photo’s still on
’cause the photo man’s suddenly turned on his heels
And he’s packed up the camera and gone.
Australian Children’s Poetry 