‘Wakey-wakey, Platypus –
time to have your tea.’
Mummy prodded Platypus
quite impatiently.
‘Pumpkin, please not pumpkin,’
was Platypus’s plea.
‘You know how food that’s orange
does not agree with me.
I want purple periwinkles,
pickled, for my tea.’
And if I must have veggies
I’ll eat a frozen pea.
Moon, I know
you’re rather fickle –
not long ago
you were thin as a sickle
but look at you now –
It’s night’s high noon
and you’re fat and full
as a blown balloon.
Moon, your face
is made of light
and you hang like hope
against the night,
waxing, waning,
sometimes gone,
always changing,
moving on.
Certainly not. You’re more likely to drown
if you swim under skies that are murky and brown.
And what’s that fence here for? Who cares if it’s green.
I’m more concerned with its ungainly lean
and its reason for being here. Something’s not right.
It belongs somewhere else (and would look better white) –
which prompts me to wonder just where it has been.
Did it come in a storm? What’s it all mean?
Blue bottles on beaches don’t appeal either,
glass ones or stinging ones. I insist neither
of these little dangers should ever be seen
on a beach where I swim; I’m a stickler for “clean”.
And one other thing: there’s no one else here;
I like to know that a life-guard is near.
That settles the matter. I wouldn’t go in.
I’d choose somewhere else for my holiday swim.
But if you’re inspired by your re-arranged mess
the outcome, I’d say, is anyone’s guess.
I remember the race,
and the confident hare.
I remember the win.
But I really don’t care
for the moral that’s drawn from
that one-off affair.
The hare could have won
and if truth be told,
races are meant
for the fast and the bold.
But the rat race, the human race-
both leave me cold.
For racers don’t see
what is perfectly plain
to the slow and the steady –
all the living you gain
going at my pace
in the slow lane.
Kate said: I initially planned to have the tortoise address the bird, but the poem had other plans. I remember as a child being annoyed by the way generalised moral pronouncements could be extracted from specific “one-off” anecdotes. This fable was a case in point. That idea took over. Sorry bird. Maybe next time.
Books and pens and scratching chalk
Gotta think but you’d better not talk
Stop that running. Can’t you walk?
You must obey the rules.
Rewrite this page – and keep it neat.
Please don’t fidget with your feet.
Please sit properly on your seat.
Don’t you know the rules?
Perhaps you did not hear me mention
that you have to pay attention?
If you don’t you’ll score detention
writing out the rules.
Writing rules? I’d like that gig.
Creative writing’s what I dig.
Woo hoo! Stand back for something big
when I write the rules.
Come November
the flame trees
begin to wear their fire.
Over there a winking ember
peeps cautiously
from a green crown,
hinting at Christmas
and stirring nervous thoughts
of fire in green places,
while nearby, an extrovert,
naked through winter,
makes a spectacle of herself
in the full flare
of a brand new red dress.
How do I look?
she asks seductively,
and even the old Jacarandas
in their cool quenching blue
offer nothing but
compliments.
The buccaneer bragged to the butcher,
“My Kitchen Rules, for sure,
so gimme those guts for me banquet tonight
and a coupla bears and that boar.
I’m goin’ all out on the barbie,
with bacon and bangers to boot,
served up with a broccoli garnish,
and for afters, a basin of fruit.
A good balanced bash for me hearties,
from Yours Truly, the Buccaneer Host,
and if they wake up in the morning,
they can get their own coffee and toast.
In the garden
orange nasturtiums arrived
and went wild
taking on the whole bed
of Flanders poppies.
They clashed terribly.
The nasturtiums
made swift advances
crawling stealthily
through the proud
rows of nodding red
blooms heavy with
memories of far fields
and so many dead.
The poppies knew
what was coming.
“All’s fair in love and war,”
shouted the nasturtiums,
tumbling them
into disarray before
trampling them
into the bed
in bloody conquest.
Author comment: Nasturtium – a symbol of power and of conquest and victory in battle.
We’re off to visit the wizard,
the wizard so wise that he knows
just what to do next
if ever you’re hexed
and the best way to clean between toes.
This wizard does not use a blizzard –
no blizzard, no twister, no snows.
No silly pretext.
No need to be vexed.
Nothing that you might suppose.
This wizard is well worth a visit.
To get there, as everyone knows,
you don’t need a text
that might leave you perplexed.
You’re fine if you follow your nose.
UQ
If you were a ewe
would you queue
too
(ewes
usually do)
if you knew
it was true
that waiting for you
at the end of the path
was a bath?
Or would you
shoot through?
7
Australian Children’s Poetry 