I’ve fetched a cloth and made it damp
with silver polish goo.
I’m banking on this little lamp
to make my dreams come true.
I’ve rubbed and scrubbed. I’ve really tried.
The smell has made me dizzy.
But nothing’s stirred from deep inside.
The genie must be busy.
Image from Pexels
I leap up high and bend in two
till toes and fingers meet,
then follow with a somersault
and land back on my feet.
I bounce back to a dizzy height,
my hands attached to hips,
then arch my spine as I prepare
to do my backward flips.
Both Mum and Dad are sorry now,
the sorriest they’ve been
for never having got around
to buying a trampoline.
There’s clearly been some wear and tear
from all those tricks I’ve aced.
The mattress on my bed is wrecked
and needs to be replaced.
Image from Pexels by RDNE Stock
I’d blown the birthday candles out
and sliced up all the cake
and then I did a silly thing.
I made a grave mistake.
I chose to do a clever trick
I’d seen performed before,
a trick to stun my party guests,
to dazzle them, for sure.
And so I grabbed the table cloth
and yanked with all my might,
anticipating gasps of awe
and squeals of pure delight.
But sadly, nothing stayed in place,
I can’t forget the sound
of glasses, bowls and dinner plates
all crashing to the ground.
The birthday cake, the party pies
and every other treat
went hurtling briefly through the air
then landed at our feet.
I could have been an instant star
but I’d just blown my chance.
If only I had made the time
to practise in advance.
Photo from Pexels by Ivan Samkov
My nose and eyes were trickling
And my throat was really tickling.
I was coming down with something, I could tell.
And I had this premonition
my particular condition
would be something that was very hard to spell.
I was sure I had an “itis”,
and most probably bronchitis
but the doctor’s looked me over, and I’m told
I don’t have pharyngitis
and I don’t have laryngitis.
What I’ve got is just a simple, common cold.
There’s a problem, he says, with the doodad.
He’s been trying for hours to install it.
The thingummyjig,
he says is too big
to plug into the whatchamacallit.
Yes, my grandpa has bought a computer
and I know that he’ll find it terrific
but he’s rung me tonight
to say something’s not right.
I just wish he could be more specific.
Image from Clker.com
My parents bought a parrot
and I taught it how to speak.
I wish I’d also taught it
when to shut its noisy beak.
It told my little brother
I considered him a sook
and then informed my sister
that I’d scribbled on her book.
I thought it might have finished
but it still had more to say.
It told my dad I hadn’t
done the homework for the day.
It told my mum her perfume
had a most peculiar smell
then added that her hairstyle
didn’t suit her very well.
Our parrot’s clearly clever
and it’s been a breeze to teach.
It’s made amazing progress
since it’s learnt the art of speech.
But now I have a problem
that’s undoubtedly occurred
because of my confessions
to this brash, outspoken bird.
Photo from Pexels by Caio
The tadpole’s now a frog – how strange!
and where’s that duckling gone?
It’s undergone some mystic change
and turned into a swan!
The caterpillar’s been reshaped,
been made a butterfly.
Once, just a bug, it’s now escaped
to navigate the sky.
Spectacular and free to see
in grasslands, trees and ponds
these wondrous acts of wizardry
require no magic wands.
Photo by Pixabay
Last night we had a dinner guest.
The food was such a treat.
I know you’ll all be so impressed
with what we had to eat.
A light and fluffy cheese soufflé
then lobster thermidor
And for dessert, a crème brûlée,
the best I’ve had, for sure.
But now it’s back to snags and chops,
to carrots, rice and beans
to tasteless soups and other slops,
to normal food routines.
A dinner guest, it seems to me
is all you really need.
to skip an uninspiring tea
and get a decent feed.
You say I haven’t listened
to a word you’ve said today
or to anything you’ve told me in the week.
But I think, in my defence,
that it is pretty fair to say
when I’m in the mood to listen, you don’t speak.
I stare into the hollows
of his smiling, bony face
and I wonder how he looked
with all his other bits in place.
Was he beautiful or ugly?
Was he fat or was he lean?
Was he just a little weakling?
Was he built like a machine?
Did he have the smooth complexion
that belongs to movie stars?
Was his face a mass of pimples
or of scary-looking scars?
The skeleton says nothing
but I’m judging from his grin
that he’s rather glad he’s free
from all that muscle, flesh and skin.
Australian Children’s Poetry 