The mighty ramparts rise above the plain,
where once the plains were sea.
And you might think how harsh it looks,
yet beautiful it seems to me.
A world of red soil, stone and silence,
of ancient legends told ’round fires,
of peace and fascination
to my tired city eyes.
Flinders Ranges, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
When will water this way come
and fill this ancient creek?
There’s been no rain hereabouts
for many a long, long week.
When drought breaks the creek will rush,
a torrent raging by,
but for now it’s turned to dust —
no clouds have blessed the sky.
While in the east, it’s flooding,
and towns and farms are lost.
Can these extremes of climate stop,
or has a line been crossed?
Dry creek bed, Flinders Ranges. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Old kangaroos with worn-down teeth
cannot get any nutrition.
They sense they will die, so their final hours
are driven by intuition.
Their know hollow trees
are their best safe havens,
to save their eyes
being pecked out by ravens.
The lucky roos will die in peace,
sheltered inside a tree,
beyond the reach of enemies
who would feast on them with glee.
Such is life in the bush —
relentless, wild and cruel,
a never-ending circle
of life, death and renewal.
The Cazneaux tree, Flinders Ranges, Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
May the twelfth is Limerick Day,
So I thought I’d better just say,
Limericks are fun,
Have a go at one,
Grab your pen without delay!
Image from Pexels by picjumbo.com
Just imagine if this was where
your school concert took place!
With lots of gold everywhere,
you’d be in a magic space.
Picture yourself up on the stage —
what would you dance or sing?
With mums and dads in every box,
the applause would really ring.
Photo of Teatro de Fenice (Venice Opera house) Italy, by Ginette Pestana
It’s when the snow is all around,
and leaves slide silent to the ground.
It’s when the river turns to ice
and skating on it might be nice.
It’s when the soup is brimming warm
and outside stays the storm.
It’s when the birds cease their choir
and your feet are by the fire.
Photo in Bavaria, Germany, by Ginette Pestana
A bugle in the frosty dawn,
each note hanging in the air,
then falling into silence
like the guns did, over there.
A voice recites a poem,
the vast crowd standing hushed;
every head is bowed,
every soul is touched.
Soon the men will march,
their memories aflame,
their banners held aloft,
each battle has a name.
And we who watch will know
that what we have was born
in blood and sacrifice,
on that first grim Anzac morn.
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
The trees are stark and bare in winter,
Mist curls around their feet.
The brooks are running fast and pooling deeply
Where the waters meet.
The sleepy twilight sends the day to flight,
And the bush slides into night.
Winter’s chill seeps down into the gorges,
And all is lost to sight.
Mountain ridges smudge the distance
In the cold grey light.
But soon enough the bush will wake to spring,
And the bellbirds’ chimes will ring.
Image from Pexels by Warren Griffiths
A skip and a hop,
a jump and a run,
Easter Sunday
is mega fun!
The eggs are hidden
everywhere,
up in trees,
under the stair.
Some are green,
some are red,
some are even
under my bed.
I’ll have a feast when
my search is complete;
and save the rest
for my friends to eat.
Photo from Pexels by Boris Manev
Let’s sit down and write a book,
The first line matters — it’s called the “hook”.
Then off we go with Chapter One,
The words are flowing, isn’t it fun?
The story’s building, what a great plot,
With twists and turns, it’s got the lot.
There are so many stories to tell your friends,
With exciting beginnings and happy ends!
Photo from Stockcake Free Images
Australian Children’s Poetry 