Tag Archives: poems for children

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On Your Marks

 

I’ve turned into jelly.

I don’t have the strength.

My stomach is stuck in my throat.

Why did I say I could swim a whole length?

I don’t even know how to float.

My goggles are loose,

should have tightened the strap.

What if they happen to leak?

And what if my bathers just suddenly snap?

I’ll be laughed at the rest of the week.

What if I don’t make the end of the race?

What if I give up all hope?

I’ll never be able to lift up my face

if I have to hold onto the rope.

My stomach is churning,

I’m still feeling bad,

I’m freezing… and there goes the gun!

I’m kicking,

I’m splashing,

I’m swimming like mad.

Will I make it?

I have!

And I’ve won!

 

Jenny Erlanger

First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #13

Jenny said: I was always a very nervous competitor in school swimming sports and dreaded the sound of the starting pistol.

 

 

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THE ECHIDNA

An echidna passed across a track

heading towards a special snack.

 

A naturalist muttered, ‘What a turn!

about this creature, I’ve got to learn.’

 

He kneeled to take a closer look

the echidna swung with strong right hook.

 

And it was such a heavy clout

it nearly knocked the watcher out.

 

The echidna curled into a prickly ball

snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’

 

The naturalist cried and mused upon

what it was that he’d done wrong.

 

He only wanted to see first hand

the weirdest creature in the land.

 

The echidna uncurled and stalked away

grumbling at his ruined day.

 

And idiots too dumb to know

you always let echidnas go –

 

About their business digging holes

and eating ants from salad bowls.

 

Or snuffling around a great big mound

Where tasty termites are always found.

 

To spare echnida watchers’ pain,

the moral of this tale is plain.

 

Always remember it’s very rude

to keep echidnas from their food.

 

Margaret Pearce

 

 

 

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Blueberry Pancakes and Parachutes

Silvery streaks of morning-time rain

puddling into the mud

reminds me of blueberry pancakes

and circular see-through parachutes.

 

Raindrops aren’t teardrops.

There’s no pointy tip.

Those free-falling globules

are blueberry round.

 

But if they meet-up

as they fall through the sky

a middle-sized raindrop

as-flat-as-a-pancake

might suddenly start to appear.

 

Bigger and larger and bulkier still

fast-falling raindrops

past pancake proportions

with stretch in the centre

and drag through the air.

 

For less than a second

becoming a dome

these small glassy parachutes

wobble then burst

to break into

blueberry droplets again.

Celia Berrell
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #11

Celia said: I was delighted to learn that raindrops make all these weird shapes as they fall to the ground.  This year I hope to receive Your Poems about the wonders of water for the Science Rhymes website.

http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2009/07/how-raindrop-exploding-parachute

 

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How Trees Grow

 

First, they listen to the wind’s ideas

and take notes.

They suck nutriment from the soil

but never forget their manners.

They bathe regularly in rain

and soak their feet in special solutions.

Measuring distances from star to star

they dream of universal travels.

Also, they touch each other kindly

and play host to thousands of guests.

 

Jennie Fraine

Jenny said: This poem was published in 1993 in a booklet I prepared and printed myself, to share with children as I spoke to them in schools about the mystery and magic, the pure possibility, of poetry. The poems had originally been written for other children, in response to their requests for a poem on a topic they liked. I had created a business called Poetic Licence and apart from lots of work in schools (via three agents) I also worked at festivals as a roving performer (writing on the spot about anything suggested by those I accosted) at literacy camps, on tour along the Murray River, in country towns and suburbs in Victoria, at writers festivals for children, at Georges and David Jones for special occasions, and at private celebrations, and at schools and the fringe festival in the Kimberleys.

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Imagination

 

In the land of dreams,

All is not what it seems.

For no world is perfect.

You see, not even in the most beautiful imaginary places.

 

Lurking in the dark are sharks.

Ready to invade the place of great beauty,

To steal some of that sunshine away.

You see, sharks are drawn to beautiful imaginary places.

 

Best to turn on the light,

And cast the shadows aside.

Let the beauty sparkle in a golden glow.

You see, even the shadows are in beautiful imaginary places.

 

Let the sun shine and sparkle,

Casting all the dark shadows aside.

Then the stunning beauty can shimmer in all its glory.

You see, goodness and happiness are found in beautiful imaginary places.

 

When you allow them to glow.

 

Karen Hendriks

 

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #10

 

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White Mice

 

White mice sniff the air

Each time I spread fresh shavings

On their bedroom floor.

 

They climb the ladder,

Build a nest of woody curls,

And squeak with delight.

 

Blind, pink and naked

Newborns smell and propel to

Mother Mouse’s milk.

 

Older babies hide,

But I see their beady eyes,

Peering from safety.

 

Going unnoticed

From my cubby-house window,

I also look out

 

And note the bustle

Of backyard creatures; thankful

For my quiet space.

 

Lyn Oxley

 

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #11

 

 

Lyn said: I incorporated Haiku style (5/7/5 syllables) into this poem to lengthen it, but kept the traditional appreciation for nature from a child’s point of view. Alliteration adds interest.

 

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THE BEACH HOLIDAY

 

The first time I saw surf,

Green and high and fringed with white.

A remorseless elemental, rolling

Forever into clean washed sands.

 

The delights of rock pools and ponies,

Of sand dunes and fishing,

Exploring the limitless space

and the boundless time of holiday.

 

The first time to catch a fish,

The first time to clean it

And the different taste when

Immediately fried golden brown.

 

The pale pale bowl of sky;

Where the days were so long

The sun paused and lingered

For untimed hours of dreaming.

 

And every pink dawn witnessed,

The low sleeping sandbanks rise

Out of the untroubled wash of the sea

And the seagulls shrieking challenge.

 

A brand new world to explore,

A precious gift, concrete and real,

New washed and promising

Every single morning.

 

My memories caught in an escape of flight.

Returned to a childhood of sheer delight.

 

© Margaret Pearce
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #7

poetry-prompt-7

Margaret said: No bottle in this poem, but the illustration brings up the feeling.

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Message in a Bottle

 

A little bit of litter

loitered there upon the sand.

A green and glassy bottle

with no label showing brand.

I wonder if it floated here

from some far distant land,

with a message at its core for me to read,

sent by a sailor stranded and in need.

 

A little weathered letter

written by the sailor’s hand,

send here across the seven seas

on waves the wind had fanned.

Is this the destination

that the messenger had planned?

Alas, I find the note has since been freed,

and now the bottle’s stranded too, indeed.

Allan Cropper
  • In response to Poetry Prompt #7

poetry-prompt-7

Poem of the Day

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The Blues

 

Most people would say blue’s a colour: the colour of sky and the sea

And If I should happen to ask you, I fully expect you’d agree,

But blue is much more than a colour: believe me, it really is true,

Because if you don’t, or you just simply won’t,

I might have a real blue with you!

 

For blue is not always a colour. It’s a blue when we argue or fight.

When our faces are red and some heated words said,

It’s a blue that we’re having all right.

A blue, then, is not very pleasant and we may be left feeling quite bad

Should that happen to you, you’ll be feeling quite blue,

Which is simply to say you that you’re sad.

 

You may hear a person called “Bluey”, or “Blue” if the name is made short.

It’s said as a joke to a red-headed bloke:

One with hair of the gingery sort.

But if you’re a loyal Australian and value this land and its ways

Then we’ll call you “true blue” and think highly of you,

For the “true blue” are people we praise.

 

Now even when blue IS a colour, we’re not always sure what to think.

We know it’s not green like a pea or a bean, and it’s hardly a yellow or pink!

But it could be a sky blue or navy. It might be an aquamarine,

Or baby blue, cobalt or turquoise, for these too may sometimes be seen.

So before you say “blue”, take a moment or two

And  make sure you make clear what you mean!

 

Monty Edwards

Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #3

poetry-prompt-3

Monty says: “As I thought about the different colours, I was struck by the range of uses of the word “blue”, and also the various shades in which the colour blue may be seen. I thought it might be helpful to children and new Australians to explore this in a poem.”

 

Poem of the Day

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Crocodile at the beach

The seagulls squawk into the sky

Aark!               Aark!

Aark!               Aark!

Daisy barks behind my legs

Yip!      Yip!      Yip!

and Ben squeals

Eeeeeeeee!

when we see the

enormous

green

crocodile kite.

Kristin Martin