Autumn
After summer, the leaves of the claret ash change colour;
Upgraded are the efforts of last spring.
Temerariously, the fairies of autumn tint each leaf: rouge, tangerine, golden.
Ultimately a masterpiece, resplendent!
Merrily a gust of wind arrives with a chill, the tree shivers,
Not remembering to hold on to its marvellous cloak.
The Chinese New Year started.
It signalled with a clang.
It commenced with quite a clamour.
It started with a – cock-a-doodle-doo!
The rooster had returned,
From his year away.
A one year celebration;
A rest from Hen Chalet.
Farmer Mick was happy,
To have the rooster back.
But the precedent was set,
Thus the dog became quite slack.
So they made up an agreement;
To celebrate the dog year.
The dog would be the farmer,
And the farmer would be pooch!
Heel! Drop! Roll!
Fetch! Stay! Go!
Farmer Mick took orders.
The dog just watched him go.
He rounded up the cows,
Then he shepherded the sheep.
He chased the cat for hours,
Then he heard a car horn beep.
He chased that car right in to town.
He finally felt quite beat.
So he walked into the café;
He supposed he’d get a treat.
Just sit I’ll fetch a menu
Said the waiter with a grin.
So he did as he was told;
Sitting next to Farmer Flynn.
Soon other farmers followed.
The café was jam-packed.
They were growling ‘bout the new year
And the Chinese Zodiac.
Farmer Bill was livid:
I’m doing all the work;
I’m barking at the postman,
He thinks I’ve gone berserk.
Each week my dog gets pampered
At the Dapper Dog Salon.
Then he has a doggycino
And a meaty doggy scone.
Last year it was the rooster,
Next year it is the pig.
I’m going to join the circus;
Protested Farmer Twig.
The farmers kept on whining,
Some circling round and round.
Then suddenly they all stood up,
Alert to a command.
Each farmer raced off out the door
Of Café Tucker Box.
Obedient and good,
Pulling up their socks.
One year of celebration
For each one of their dogs.
They really are so faithful
Admitted Farmer Noggs.
Strange Creatures in the Night.
I go outside and look around.
Bright lights, fast cars, quick pace, loud sounds.
Back indoors it’s just the same.
Electric noise; what is my aim?
Life is such a constant hustle;
A daily grind, a frightful bustle.
Round and round; a dizzy spin.
I wish to hear a dropping pin.
But what is this? The noise has stopped.
Oh dear! Oh no! The fridge switched off.
Computer, lights and radio,
Have all shut down – Why is it so?
Softly;
Quietly;
Peacefully; tiptoe.
I go outside.
It’s dark with just a hint of glimmer.
A full moon rises to meet the shimmer
Of a zillion stars in the southern sky.
I breathe in deep; let out a sigh.
At ease;
Laidback;
In a leisurely manner.
I begin to wander.
A rustling sound! I’m terrified!
I try to find a place to hide.
The moonlight shadows shapes are scary.
Bunyips! Help! – They’re big, they’re hairy!
I cannot move! I’m panic-stricken!
But wait I see the plot does thicken.
A possum treads across my feet and scurries up an old gum-tree.
It glances back; my heart skips beats: A brush tail not a bunyip! See.
Composedly I stumble on.
My fear almost entirely gone.
A chorus: calming; echoes rhyming; rhythmic, placid, soulful blues.
Ribbit; ribbit; ribbit; ribbit… I take note and I muse.
And then a shock! I want to cry.
The moon has fallen from the sky.
It’s landed in the billabong.
So this is why the sad frog song.
What can I do? How can I help?
“Boobook, boobook.” What’s that I yelp?
The Bunyip! Shh! The frogs go quiet.
Oh please I do not want to fight.
And then I see a silhouette. Against the moon… back in the sky?
An owl perched high up on a tree branch. Not a bunyip. Phew! I sigh.
The frogs resume their old refrain.
And still the moon shall wax and wane.
The hours pass. The moon sets west.
A digging sound. I need a rest.
I bumble round and find a seat.
Oh dear! Oh me! This seat’s got feet!
It is the end! I have been caught!
I sniff; I stutter… indeed I snort.
Then suddenly I’m flying high.
The bunyip’s tossed me to the sky.
And as I come back down to earth,
The view, it fills my soul with mirth.
My home, set there; quite near the wild.
This night adventure; I am beguiled…
Ouch! I land with such a thud.
A graceless splat into the mud.
The dawn arrives with a different sound.
But just for now I homeward bound.
And by the way, I meant to say
That seat with feet by light of day
Was not a bunyip but a wombat.
And no, I’m not an acrobat!
By Louise McCarthy
Australia has a lovely shape; it truly does look great.
Compared to any other land; there’s simply no debate.
I’ve studied maps in atlases, seen globes that spin around,
But nowhere on this planet can a better shape be found.
From north to south, from east to west, the outcome is quite clear.
Australia’s shape is just the best – so I will stay right here.
By Louise McCarthy
A leisurely bike ride along the bush track,
Nothing too strenuous – 2ks then back.
Nothing competitive; dawdling along,
Enjoying the scenery and humming a song.
A leisurely bike ride – me on my own,
No need to hurry, 2ks then home.
4ks in total, pedalling with ease,
One cloud of pollen watch out I may sneeze.
The bell birds say “tink” as I ride through their patch.
Then past an echidna having a scratch.
Butterflies easily keep up the pace.
Dragonflies hover; their wings look like lace.
The ride is delightful – it’s time to turn back,
But just wait a minute – what’s that on the track?
A kangaroo lazily hopping ahead.
Is it a grey or is it a red? I’ll just go and see…
Faster and faster I quadruple my cadence
Just scraping through a gap in a farm fence.
The kangaroo is bounding in front at great speed,
But I am the one who will soon take the lead.
I crank up the gears and decrease my resistance.
By crouching down low, in less time more distance.
With speed and endurance I’ve almost succeeded,
In passing a grey kangaroo unpreceded.
The tail wind is strong; I am zooming along,
But all of a sudden something goes wrong.
The kangaroo disappears off the bush track,
Into the scrub and doesn’t hop back.
I skid to a halt – my heart is arrhythmic.
I cannot believe it – oh what a mean trick!
And as the dust settles, I stand all alone,
Except for a sign that says – “20ks home.”
Louise McCarthy
A Christmas Question
What have we done with Christmas?
It doesn’t seem the same
Now fewer sing the carols
Or mention Jesus’ name.
And though we think of giving,
Does getting matter more?
I far prefer the Christmas
We used to have before:
A Christmas that was simple
With family, food and fun:
A time for feeling thankful
That God had sent his Son.
A Christmas that was joyful
And love was at the core.
I far prefer the Christmas
We used to have before.
Not Christmas just for rich folk
And those with cash to spare.
It need not be expensive
To show someone you care.
The faith and hope of Christmas
Are free to rich or poor.
I far prefer the Christmas
We used to have before.
Yes, I am getting older:
My hair now turned quite grey.
I cannot count my wrinkles,
Or hear all people say,
But seeing stressed-out shoppers,
Rush round from store to store,
I far prefer the Christmas
We used to have before.
For Christmas has a history
I fear we may forget:
Events once clothed in mystery,
Which fascinate me yet.
The Gospels which describe them
Were written to ensure
We grasp the point of Christmas
As once we did before.
by Monty Edwards
Old Technology
The wise men they travelled so terribly far;
With their camels and gifts,
They followed a star.
And how did they know just where they should go?
That the Christ child was born; who told them so?
‘Twas a Hark! From an angel!
An angel from high.
Not a tweet from the internet
While using Wi-Fi!
By Louise McCarthy
At a quarter to seven on Christmas morning,
The farmyard choir commenced performing.
The hens lead-in – Bok bok begin.
Then bar by bar the sheep joined in.
A donkey brayed, some horses neighed,
The cows crooned moo, an egg was laid!
Then Tom the cat and Mrs. Mittens,
Meowed and purred with their three kittens.
Ensuing this; a quiet rest,
A morning banquet; the very best!
A cup of tea; a fruit mince pie,
Good hay and grain to feed the choir.
The singers resumed; fine-tuning their voices;
For Handel’s Messiah; what fine Christmas choices!
The lead dog howled Bach, and the others joined in;
A Christmas Oratorio fit for a king!
The audience cheered, the dog took a bow,
So too the others, and finally the cow.
Then onto the stage- the pièce de résistance;
The turkey arrived; a special appearance.
She sang with such joy; her small repertoire;
Each Christmas her singing gets better by far.
And so – this is Christmas on Mulligans’ farm.
And the gift is quite simple and has so much charm.
This story’s a gift and the wish is for you;
For peace and for hope the whole year through.
By Louise McCarthy.
Christmas Confusion.
Exhausted I was – one Christmas Eve,
After putting out presents for Santa – Indeed!
I sat on the sofa and ate Santa’s supper.
Instead of the milk – I had a hot cuppa.
I started to doze, I started to dream.
I dreamt I was flying as one of a team.
It was cold; it was freezing; my nose – it was red!
Then someone roared “Rudolf!” And I turned my head.
“To the top of the porch…”
“Yes I know how it goes.”
And instinctively up off the ground I arose.
Dashing here, there and yonder,
With no time to ponder.
Delivering presents all made by the elves.
And when the night ended,
And at last we descended;
I wearily lay down to rest on the hay.
I started to doze, I started to dream.
Then someone yelled “Dad! Where have you been?
Santa’s left presents! Mum’s set the table…
Why are you out here asleep in the stable?”
A Book!
Book book, book book! exclaimed the hen.
Really! I replied.
Book book, book book, she clucked again.
Book book, book book, she sighed.
A book, a book – I understand.
A book, a book – but what?
Book book, book book, book book, book book
Book book, book book, Book bok…
A book, a book – I’ll have a look.
I’ll see what I can find.
A book, a book – a classic book,
This book, you will not mind.
So we sat under the claret ash with a book; the hen and me.
And I read till it was almost dark.
Then we went inside for tea.
Australian Children’s Poetry 