It’s quarter to four
and you’re at the door –
I hear your tail thumping
and bumping the floor –
and while I’m delighted
that you’re so excited
to know that it’s time
to be reunited,
it would make me grin,
(in fact, we’d both win),
if you’d move a little
so that I could get in!

By Kylie Covark


Fish and Chips

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Fish and Chips


Chips was a seagull,

His best friend was Fish,

Together they made their own

Favourite dish.


A real set of villains,

Wired to steal,

Swooping and snatching

From humans mid-meal.


They could have been heroes,

This larcenous pair,

But there was a problem;

They just couldn’t share.


The other seagulls,

Tired of scraps,

Began making plans

For tricks and for traps.


They held all their meetings

In secretive places,

Aboard mighty ships

With stowaway spaces.


Then Livingstone Seagull

Came up with a scheme,

To rid their fair beach

Of that greedy gull team.


They planned a great party

On one of the ships;

The two guests of honour

Would be Fish and Chips.


They were to be named

Joint “Bird of the Year”,

And they boarded the ship

To a gushing gull cheer.


On each of their heads

Was placed a gold crown,

Pretty but heavy,

Those crowns weighed them down.


The pair smiled and waved,

As proud as could be,

The party went on

As the ship sailed to sea.


Some seagulls made speeches

Which seemed sort of long,

Then Livingstone stood

And sang them a song.


Well Fish and Chips

Were tired by now,

“We really must fly,”

They said with a bow.


The others agreed

And flocked to the sky,

Shouting “So long”

“Adios” and “Good bye”.


But poor Fish and Chips

Were weighed to the ground,

Their heads had been glued

As they had been crowned.


And try as they might

To get them unstuck,

Those crowns were on tight;

They had run out of luck.


And as they sat glumly

Each one had a wish,

Fish wanted chips,

And Chips wanted fish.


By Kylie Covark











A Koalas’s Christmas Carol/The Santa Man

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Two poems today: Thankyou for the terrific response


A Koala’s Christmas Carol


In a great, grey gum,

As daybreak crept.

Snoozy Koala

Slept and she slept.


Her branch was cosy –

Firm, yet snug.

It cradled her gently

In a eucalypt hug.


She was alone,

Just as she preferred.

No possums, no gliders,

Not even a bird.


But then one day

Something was wrong,

Her tree was humming

Some terrible song.


“Come along Snoozy,

You know that can’t be.

You’re losing your marbles,

It’s only a tree!”


But on went the music,

Through day and through night,

And the mystery choir

Remained out of sight.


The lyrics were strange

Words she did not know.

Like jingling bells

And reindeer in snow.


No longer at peace

In her comfy bed,

Those strange sounding words

Got stuck in her head.


She could take it no more,

The sound she must follow,

So she searched and discovered,

A glittery hollow.


But who were these folk,

All waiting in line,

And what was that painted

On the entrance sign.


“Christmas Committee

And carollers free.

Everyone else:

A five gumnut fee.”


“What is this nonsense?”

She wanted to know.

An owl said, “It’s the

Bush Christmas Show.”


She was curious now

To see this big bash.

But koalas really have

No use for cash.


She had no gumnuts

So she couldn’t pay.

She hummed as she

Glumly turned on her way.


Just at that minute,

Who should pass by,

But the chief choir mistress,

Madame La Magpie.


“Oh darling koala,

You’re just what I need!

Your pitch is quite perfect,

Just follow my lead.”


Now Snoozy Koala

Was usually shy,

But she couldn’t resist

And followed the pie.


In front of the crowd

She remembered each word

To all of the Christmasy songs

That she’d heard.


The crowd stood and cheered

As she took her bow.

She understood what all of this

Fuss was for now.


She hugged her new friends,

She’d had such a ball.

And she beamed as she cried,

“Merry Christmas to all!”

Kylie Covark




That Santa Man


It’s Christmas Eve and everywhere,

Children lie awake and stare,

Hoping for a single glimpse,

Of sleigh or boots or reindeer prints.


They leave out carrots, cookies, milk,

And stockings made of wool or silk.

They hang a sign that says ‘Stop Here,’

In hopes that Santa will appear.


But I’m a grinch, I am a scrooge,

I think that jolly man is rude!

Entering a person’s house,

Sneaking quiet as a mouse.


Break and enter! It’s a crime.

It’s not your house, it’s mine, mine, mine!

Keep your gifts and Christmas cheer,

I do not want it brought in here.


I’ve barred the windows, locked the doors.

I have no chimney, but that Claus,

He gets inside, I don’t know how.

I’ll keep him out this year I vow.


I lie awake, I will no doze,

I’ll catch that man in bright red clothes.

I’ll hand him in to the police,

They’ll give him twenty years at least.


The clock strikes midnight in the hall,

My eyelids droop, a far off call,

Says, ‘Ho Ho Ho,’ in chuckled voice,

I rouse myself and then rejoice.


I think I’ve caught him out this time,

But down the stairs what do I find?

Before my eyes a horrid sight,

Silver tinsel, baubles bright!


Wreaths and stars in golden hues,

Gifts inside my socks and shoes!

Candy canes and Christmas cake,

Fairy lights, for goodness sake!


Every inch from floor to roof,

Is decorated, there’s my proof,

He’s been and gone, that Santa man,

Thwarted again my Christmas plan.


And in my yard, what’s this I see?

There’s a live nativity!

Donkeys, cows and baaing sheep,

Baby Jesus fast asleep.


Mary, Joseph, wise men too,

Shepherds galore, what can I do?

It’s time that I admit defeat,

Time to surrender and retreat.


I’ll write a card to Mr. Claus,

For when it comes to Christmas wars,

I’ve tried my best but I give in.

Can’t keep him out. Santa, you win.

By Lynelle Kendall






My Christmas Story

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My Christmas Story


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It feels like Winter snow.

I’d better get a move on;

Just six more sleeps to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It sounds like Ho Ho Ho.

I’d better get my skates on;

Just five more sleeps to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It smells like cookie dough.

I’d better get a roll on;

Just four more sleeps to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story,

But it’s not the one I know.

I’d better pull the reins in

With three more sleeps to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It smells like fresh mango,

I’d better take it easy;

Still two more sleeps to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It sounds like the sea’s flow,

It’s time to take a rest now;

Just one more sleep to go.


I’m writing a Christmas story.

It feels like Summer’s glow.

And today I’ll live that story;

A Christmas of my own.


By Kylie Covark


Casanova Can


Casanova Can


Casanova caterpillar

Had a bold ambition,

He wouldn’t be a butterfly

(Though that was the tradition).

He’d seen the others growing wings

And didn’t fancy that,

Instead he’d shed some letters

And turn into a cat.

Cousin Costa chaffed him.

“It cannot be”, he said,

“Come on Casanova,

You’ve really lost your head.”

“I can! I can! I can!”

Casanova cried.

He could do most anything

If he only tried.

And when it was the moment

To weave his own cocoon,

Casanova said “Farewell,

I’ll be a real cat soon.”

And so with bated breath,

(It really was a thriller),

He wished away the e and r

And the entire pillar.

And then oh joy of joys

The time came to be free,

And life was so much lighter,

As just a C-A-T.

By Kylie Covark

The Wrong Wheels


The Wrong Wheels


When the humans were asleep

In nightgowns and nightcaps,

The midnight rat would creep inside

And feast upon their scraps.


The midnight rat was crafty,

The midnight rat was sly,

He’d always slink in shadows,

Unseen by human eyes.


But there was someone watching,

With eyes that gleamed in black,

The midnight rat could see him:

The cunning household cat.


The midnight rat was agile,

And cautious, quick and smart,

That cat could never catch the rat,

When the house was clothed in dark.


So the cat approached politely

And he bent down very low.

“Oh rapturous rat I love your work,

I do admire you so.


“But I would make a suggestion,

If I could be so bold.

A king like you should never dine

On scraps so soggy and cold.


“The humans have cake in the daytime,

And bread and scones and pies,

There’s so much good food in the daytime,

You wouldn’t believe your eyes.


“The only thing you really need,

Ask anyone who steals,

If you are going to make a getaway –

Is a brand new set of wheels.”


The rat told him to keep away

And ran off with his loot,

But then he started pondering

As he chewed on soggy fruit.


He was the Midnight Rat!

The cleverest rat by far!

It would be a snap for him

To build a speedy car.


And build away he did,

Though you may find it surprising,

The rat had made that car

By the time the sun was rising.


And he could smell the breakfast

And he didn’t stop to think,

The car whizzed straight inside

Faster than a blink.


And what a tale of glory!

What a momentous day,

The rat snatched a delectable haul

And was making his getaway.


But outside the car slowed

And the cat caught him with ease…

Instead of using tyres,

He had used four wheels of cheese.


As he watched them melting on the road

The rat knew we was done,

His greatest foe was not the cat

But that infernal sun.


The cat smiled a wicked grin,

“I never thought of that!

I think my favourite meal might be

Grilled cheese à la rat.”


By Kylie Covark

Pigeon Grey



Pigeon Grey



Way down passed our shed,

Where the realm of humans ends,

‘Mongst the mottled bottle brushes

Live a hundred feathered friends.


And ninety-nine of those

Cavort and romp and play,

And the only one left out

Is poor old Pigeon Grey.


The magpies are quite striking

And the honey-eaters fair,

The rosellas are spectacular;

It’s tricky not to stare.


They gather in the bird bath

Where they primp and preen all day,

But when Pigeon tries to join them

They squawk, “Ew! Get away!”




And Pigeon Grey sighs deeply

Then he sits off on his own,

He watches on with envy

Wishing he was not alone.


If only they would speak to him

Those other birds would find

That Pigeon Grey is funny.

He is clever. He is kind.


But they all look down their beaks

At his feathers drab and grey,

And then rather than converse with him

They just squawk “Get away!”


Then one day there is twittering,

The garden is in shock.

Pigeon Grey has made a friend;

The new bird on the block.


And the whispers are quite snippy,

“That new bird she must be dull.

Perhaps another pigeon

Or an imbecilic gull!”


But the honey-eater sees her

And she has to look once more.

This new bird is not dull at all.

This bird is not a bore.


Her feathers start as brightest blue,

Then yellow, red, and green.

If the garden was a monarchy

Then she would be its queen.


There’s a hustle then to meet her,

A bustle and a fuss.

“You don’t have to sit with Pigeon Grey,

Come here and sit with us!”


But the lorikeet shakes her head,

“I’d rather stay right here.

The world seems so much shinier

When Pigeon Grey is near.”


The other birds they bristle,

“It simply can’t be true.

He is drab and dreary,

He’s not half as bright as you.”

The lorikeet looks surprised,

“You don’t know him at all.

Pigeon Grey is marvellous,

He’s famed beyond your wall.


“Have you not heard his music,

As he wakes the morning sun?

If you’ve spent the afternoon with him

Has it not been loads of fun?


“Have you seen him cheer a baby bird

As it first takes to the skies?

Have you heard him tell a funny tale

With laughter in his eyes?


“Have you come to him with worries

And been sure he’d listen well?

Have you taken on the sage advice

That he will freely tell?”


“If you’ve ever asked him for his help

Did he make you wait?

I’m sure that you must know the truth.

Pigeon Grey is great!”


Pigeon Grey is humbled

But as he looks around,

His neighbours will not meet his eyes;

They all stare at the ground.


But then a tiny bird agrees,

“Yes, Pigeon Grey’s the best!

He taught me to be brave

When I was scared to leave the nest.”


And others pipe up too

With their tales that spring to mind.

Indeed, each bird does seem to know

That Pigeon Grey is kind.


Way down passed our shed,

Where the realm of humans ends,

‘Mongst the mottled bottle brushes

Live a hundred feathered friends.


And each one of those hundred

Cavort and romp and play,

But the one they all love best of all

Is dear old Pigeon Grey.

By Kylie Covark