I wanted to write a poem about Sunday,
simply because it rhymed with Monday.
But then it was Tuesday,
I struggled all day,
and all Wednesday I waited
with breath abated,
and decided that Thursday
would be my verse day!
But no words came to mind,
I got really behind,
now it’s Sunday again
and I’ve lost my pen…
Teacher’s note: “To wait with bated breath” is a very common phrase. Bated is short for “abated”. It is never spelled “abaited”, because bait refers to hunting and trapping.
Hello, puppy, what’s your name?
Where did they find you?
Have you come to live at my place,
or are you passing through?
I got here first, I make the rules,
so set them in your head:
never ever eat my food,
and don’t sleep in my bed!
What’s a haberdasher?
Is it someone who runs fast?
No, it’s not, so let me tell you
about this shop that you walk past.
A haberdasher runs a shop
that sells haberdashery.
Things for sewing, things you won’t see
in a salmon hatchery.
Needles, threads, wool and yarn,
material by the metre —
that’s the stuff that Mum will buy
when haberdashers greet her.
Teacher’s note: In America, haberdashers sell men’s clothing!
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
I can’t go out to play today,
it’s raining very hard.
And it rained the day before as well
and flooded my backyard.
My shoes are wet,
my socks are soaked,
my boots are green with mould —
I wonder how much water
this world of ours can hold?
Photo by Pixabay
We’re on the train to Paris
and we’re going really fast!
I can see the needle climb,
as the scenery flashes past.
The ride is very smooth;
not a rattle, bump or shake.
It’s like the magic carpet
that Aladdin used to take.
We’ve almost reached three hundred
kilometres an hour;
there’s no train in Australia
that has this kind of power.
Teacher’s note: The distance from Bordeaux to Paris is around 500 kilometres. The fast train, leaving Bordeaux at 5.04 pm, arrives in Paris at 7.08 pm.
The morning mist lingers,
doesn’t want to go.
The air crackles,
overnight was zero.
I’ve stoked the fire,
boiled the tea,
a long cold day
awaits me.
Am I a cathedral —
or something finer?
Maybe a palace,
or an ocean liner?
Am I a museum,
studded with gold?
A famous art gallery
with pictures old?
The fact is, I’m nothing
much of a sensation.
I’m just the local
railway station!
(Teacher’s note: Kecskemet —pronounced KETCH-kem-ayt — is the eighth largest city in Hungary. It is located at the north of the Hungarian South Great Plain. In January, temperatures drop below zero; in July they average 22 degrees Celsius. The famous composer Zoltan Kodaly was born here. In the years under Communist rule, many public places such as railway stations were decorated to inspire awe and express the power of the State.)
I wonder where they come from,
I wonder where they go,
I wonder who might use them,
as they hurry to and fro.
Is a ghost abroad at night?
Does it haunt this secret place?
I can hear its shuffling feet,
but I cannot see its face!
So ancient are these steps,
So stony cold and bare,
In the heart of old Vienna,
By a bleak and wintry square.
These giant domes of rock
rise from the desert plain;
a rusting of iron oxide
gives them a reddish stain.
Six hundred million years ago
they were thrust up to the sky.
With many heads a-dreaming,
their legends will not die.
Teacher’s note: Kata Tjuta, which means “many heads” in the local Aboriginal language, is located 25 km from Uluru. Like Uluru, it is considered sacred to the Aboriginal people of Australia, and the mythology of the site is not disclosed to outsiders. The highest peak (at left) was named Mount Olga by explorer Ernest Giles in 1872.
I see the old men march,
who survived the times of war,
beneath their proud-held banners
from so many different corps.
I see bright companionship
shining in their eyes;
they’re marching to remember
those who fell and could not rise.
We salute them once again
and pray that never more
young men will have to go
a-marching into war.
Photo by Pixabay
Australian Children’s Poetry 