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.
Slithering, whispering
A snake came to class
Brightly glittering
Its scales like glass
Short, thick body
Banded with grey
Wiggling lure tail
Tempting for prey.
Terrible, horrible
It gave us a turn
But Mrs MacWinkle
Said, ‘It may wish to learn.’
Snake failed English
Again and again;
Snakes are not built
For holding a pen.
Snake could not learn
To decipher a map,
Of history and science
It knew not a scrap.
But to our surprise
That snake was able
To complete with a snap
The seven times table.
At sums and fractions
It couldn’t be greater:
Its mind was just like
The best calculator.
When we realised the truth
We could hardly be gladder:
Mathematics comes easy
When you are an adder.
Dear Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith,
I’m writing you this letter
because your son’s behaviour
isn’t getting any better.
His writing is untidy and
his spelling is a worry.
He’s often late and consequently,
always in a hurry.
His recent science project
nearly caused a school disaster.
The explosion covered twenty boys
in clouds of ceiling plaster.
He’s been with us for twenty years,
or is it twenty two?
Dear Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith,
just what are we to do?
He’s untidy and he’s silly
and he always acts the fool,
but still the students say he’s
the best teacher in our school.
Are you ready for a big tomorrow
listening, leap frogging,
growing learning’s wings?
Are you ready for a big tomorrow
singing, seeking friends, perhaps
learning not to cling?
Will you notice as
your tomorrows become todays
patterned by
the daily school bell rings?
Will you find each day might
have a surprise
like a snake catcher visiting with
super thin snake skin?
Are you ready for a big tomorrow
As your school journey begins?
Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4
June said: With ‘First Day’ I started with the idea of a ‘big tomorrow’, and thought about yesterday, today, tomorrow, routines and surprises.
I also remembered a time when my son had a snake catcher visit his school and so the poem was born.
This is the tale of a horrid blister,
caused directly by my sister.
I borrowed her shoes for a tennis twosome,
and soon my heel became very gruesome.
First it rubbed pink, and then bright red,
and as I played, it bled and bled.
There were pools of blood all over the place
Some of it splashed as far as my face.
I used plenty of bandaids, criss and cross,
and kept on playing, splish and splosh.
I slid and slithered around that court,
never was a game so wetly fought.
But in all that blood, I lost the ball,
so the game was ended, forty all.
My blistered heel was a dreadful pain,
but sister said it was a bloody good game.
Billy Bonder often pondered
While sitting naval gazing
Just what it was about belly buttons
He found totally amazing
The button turned nothing on or off
It seemed to have no use
Perhaps he thought its purpose was
To stop his bum from coming loose
So finally he thought it time
To try and make a start
And find some useful purpose
For this lazy body part
It was all that Billy thought about
‘til it gave him tummy trouble
And then one day by accident
His belly button blew a bubble
The pity was for all concerned
That it seemed that at the start
The only way to blow a belly bubble
Was to counter balance with a fart
But Billy took the time to practice
Even Mum was tickled pink
When he blew beautiful belly bubbles
Without the noise or awful stink
With his special new found skill
Billy Bonder shot to fame
The beautiful belly button bubbles
Meant everybody knew his name
While it was an innovation
And quite startling and new
Billy realised he would be old news
In just a week (or maybe two)
And he was right, it wasn’t long
Before someone had him beat
Jenny Jones from Jonbley Junction
Could knit jumpers with her feet
So while the button did him proud
And brought Billy fleeting fame
His belly button could now retire
And start collecting lint again
Young Eric was a little boy who really loved to eat.
In any eating contest he’d be very hard to beat.
His slender older sister wouldn’t ever be his match,
Nor did his bigger brother think that Eric he could catch.
And even Eric’s father, who was more than average size,
When watching Eric eating could not hide his great surprise,
For Eric’s plate was piled up high with food of every kind:
To see it quickly disappear just blew his father’s mind!
His mother’s face looked anxious as she eyed what Eric ate.
She thought: “If Eric keeps this up, he’ll put on too much weight.
I’ll feed him lots of Brussels sprouts and serve him tripe and brains.
That surely ought to put an end to any weight he gains!”
But Eric didn’t seem to mind; he just kept eating faster;
He hardly tasted what he ate. The plan was a disaster.
His father said: “This can’t go on. It’s got beyond a joke.
If Eric keeps his eating up, our family will go broke!”
They pondered for a moment, thinking what next they could do.
His older sister said that they should put him in a zoo!
“He’d only eat the animals”, replied his older brother.
“Enough of that! That’s most unkind!” responded Eric’s mother.
“We have to think of something that will make him want to stop,
Or else I’ll spend hours every day just going to the shop.”
His desperate Dad was thinking fast: “I think I know a way.
We’ll start to ration all the food we’re going to eat each day.”
“First, everyone will get a serve, all generous, but the same.
When anybody asks for more, then that will start the game.
You’ll have to buy the extra food you want put on your plate
And if you can’t produce the cash, food won’t eventuate.
Your pocket money or your purse could gain you new supplies,
But as your money disappears, you soon will realise
There’ll be no money left to buy the things you want far more
And only empty pockets will go with you to the store.”
His Dad knew well that Eric loved to spend his cash on sweets,
But money spent on extra food meant none for special treats!
It was a most unhappy lad who came to meals each day.
Instead of filling him with food, they filled him with dismay.
His appetite began to wane. He left scraps on the plate.
Before, with something left to eat, he wouldn’t hesitate.
The ration plan soon brought an end to Eric’s problem habit
And that is how his family stopped him eating like a rabbit.
Submitted in response to 2016 Poetry Prompt #48
Monty says: I decided on the theme of overeating and brainstormed words related to eating, along with words rhyming with these that had potential as part of a story poem about a boy who ate too much. After introducing the family in verse 1 and posing the problem in verse 2, finding a convincing way to resolve the problem slowed my progress considerably.
Santa had a problem—his special suit no longer fit.
It was snug around the tummy. When he sat, his trousers split.
One bight and early morning, Mrs Santa said:
“Dear, I must tell you something that I read.
I love you roly-poly, I love you as you are,
but if you took a health test you wouldn’t get a star.
It’s really most important to have a healthy heart
and if you want a long life, it’s not too late to start.”
Santa called in at the health club—the trainer checked him out.
She said: “We’ll plan a program that’ll work without a doubt.”
She booked him in for workouts three times every week,
then talked about his diet and told him what to eat.
He ate lots of fruit and vegies, chose grilled instead of fried
for every single main meal, with salads on the side.
He said no to morning tea cakes and had carrot sticks instead.
Whenever offered sweet treats, he firmly shook his head.
Santa also started walking quite early in the day
and soon those extra kilos began to melt away.
He said: “I feel fantastic, this year will be a breeze.
I’ll deliver all those presents without the slightest wheeze.
I won’t get stuck in chimneys or struggle up steep stairs
or stop to have a rest whenever I see chairs.”
Then on Christmas Eve, a problem as Santa dressed to leave.
His suit no longer fit him except for length of sleeve.
His top was loose and baggy where tight it was before,
and when he pulled his trousers up, they slid down to the floor.
He looked at Mrs Santa. “Whatever will we do?
Perhaps some safety pins? Could you sew a seam or two?
We need a quick solution for I really ought to go.
The children are all waiting and I can’t be late, you know.”
Mrs Santa nodded and tried to hide a smile.
“Thank goodness it’s late shopping. This will only take a while.”
So that’s why this year Santa won’t be wearing his red suit.
He’s got a brand new outfit. Mrs Santa thinks it’s cute.
It’s a bright red fleecy tracksuit for warmth in North Pole cold,
and a pair of sporty sneakers replacing boots of old.
For his head a woolly beanie instead of pom pom cap.
So if one Christmas evening you should glimpse a bearded chap
who looks a lot like Santa except he’s fit and trim,
don’t think that you’re mistaken, for yes, you’re right, it’s him!
We Wish You a Merry Birthday
My name is Noelle and I’m sorry to say
that I was born on Christmas Day,
after the presents but before the singing
(nonsense about sleigh bells ringing).
My father claimed he’d had a hunch
that I’d be born right after lunch
and so it was: Mum gave a shout!
Pudding went in, I popped out.
I wish, I wish, I really do
she’d held on for a week or two.
Each year I share my special day
with that festering, festive holiday.
Instead of balloons I get baubles.
My head aches as my family warbles
Christmas carols all day long—
I never get a birthday song
and though each year I get a cake
it’s always fruit, for goodness sake.
I always thought it couldn’t be worse
than a birthday with a tinsel curse
till my sister made my birthday cool—
she was born an April fool.
Jessica Nelson
Jessica said: I was guilty of having a baby on Christmas Day last year, and I’ve been filled in on the potential downsides of a birthday overshadowed by Christmas. I hope she always finds her birthday special, and I’ll be sure to sing her Happy Birthday every year.
Australian Children’s Poetry 