My nose is buried in a book,
as I read from cover to cover,
and with every line I read,
new things I discover.
Each word makes a picture,
each picture fires my brain —
it’s such a great adventure,
how can I explain?
One day I will write a book
and everyone will read it —
an author I am going to be,
and you’d best believe it!
Image from Pexels by Min An
Out in the wilds
the daylight is dying;
the darklight is coming,
and the wind is a-sighing.
Shadows will deepen,
grow darker and soon,
with the quiet starlight,
will come the moon.
The pastures will sleep
and not waken till morn,
when at last the sun rises
and a new day is born.
North Island, New Zealand. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Word is a word
that rhymes with word.
But what about cord,
and ford and sword?
They don’t rhyme with word,
as you’ve no doubt heard.
How come English is so erratic,
so hard to learn and problematic?
My word, I wish I knew!
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
Mary had a little lamb,
it grew into a sheep.
It got so big and woolly,
she gave it to Bo Peep.
Little Bo Peep was
minding the sheep,
eating her curds and whey,
when a massive great spider
sat down beside her
and would not go away.
She sent off a text
to her pals Jack and Jill;
with three blind mice,
they ran up the hill.
All the king’s horses ran away with the spoon
and the sheep jumped over the moon.
Photo by James Aitchison
See those trees
up to their knees
in the lake.
Branches bare,
no leaves to spare,
no boat’s wake
disturbs the sunken forest,
beneath a blazing sun,
so far from everyone,
the waters are at rest.
Lake Pamamaroo, Menindee. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Teacher’s note: Nine mainly shallow lakes make up the Menindee Lakes on the Darling River in New South Wales. Menindee was the first town established on the Darling, on the lands of the Barkindji people. The nearest major city is Broken Hill.
These mussels come from the sea,
they’re not in a leg or an arm.
They’re very fresh and tasty,
and their shells are part of their charm.
Dig into the the bowl for a feast,
and eat a dozen or two;
the only muscles you’ll need
are the ones that help you chew.
Image from Pixabay
If you’re a fish and you get sick,
who do you go and see?
The Doctopus will help you —
he’s your undersea GP.
He’s qualified to treat
watery infections,
and because he has eight hands,
he’ll give you eight injections.
From sore sardines and sneezing sharks
to tonsil-troubled tuna,
the Doctopus will fix you —
you’ll feel much better sooner.
Photo from Stockcake
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
Australian Children’s Poetry 