Tag Archives: poems for children

Santa’s New Clothes by Teena Raffa-Mulligan

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Santa’s New Clothes

 

Santa had a problem for his suit no longer fit.

It was snug around the tummy. When he sat, his trousers split.

One bight and early morning, Mrs Santa said:

“My dear, I must tell you something that I read.

I love you roly-poly, I love you as you are,

but if you took a health test you wouldn’t get a star.

It’s really most important to have a healthy heart

and if you want a long life, it’s not too late to start.”

Santa called in at the health club—the trainer checked him out.

She said: “We’ll plan a program that will work without a doubt.”

She booked him in for workouts three times every week,

then talked about his diet and told him what to eat.

He ate lots of fruit and vegies, chose grilled instead of fried

for every single main meal, with salads on the side.

He said no to morning tea cakes and had carrot sticks instead.

Whenever offered sweet treats, he firmly shook his head.

Santa also started walking quite early in the day

and soon those extra kilos began to melt away.

He said: “I feel fantastic, this year will be a breeze.

I’ll deliver all those presents without the slightest wheeze.

I won’t get stuck in chimneys or struggle up steep stairs

or stop to have a rest whenever I see chairs.”

Then on Christmas Eve, a problem as Santa dressed to leave.

His suit no longer fit him except for length of sleeve.

His top was loose and baggy where tight it was before,

and when he pulled his trousers up, they slid down to the floor.

He looked at Mrs Santa. “Whatever will we do?

Perhaps some safety pins? Could you sew a seam or two?

We need a quick solution for I really ought to go.

The children are all waiting and I can’t be late, you know.”

Mrs Santa nodded and tried to hide a smile.

“Thank goodness it’s late shopping. This will only take a while.”

So that’s why this year Santa won’t be wearing his red suit.

He’s got a brand new outfit. Mrs Santa thinks it’s cute.

It’s a bright red fleecy tracksuit for warmth in North Pole cold,

and a pair of sporty sneakers replacing boots of old.

For his head a woolly beanie instead of pom pom cap.

So if one Christmas evening you should glimpse a bearded chap

who looks a lot like Santa except he’s fit and trim,

don’t think that you’re mistaken, for yes, you’re right, it’s him!

Teena Raffa-Mulligan

Gargoyle Guile by Kate O’Neil

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Gargoyle Guile

 

Like it or not

I am glued to this spot,

left in the lurch

on a perilous perch

exposed to all weathers,

bird-bombs and feathers,

no shelter at night,

a face like a fright,

with a monstrous chin

and a phony grin

that’s just an excuse,

a ridiculous ruse

for making a drain

to spew out the rain

away from the wall

of this cold stone hall.

Day in and day out

I do nothing but spout

the run-off and grime

and the muck and the slime

from up on this roof –

I feel such a goof.

In fact, I’m offended

at being wrong-ended

with backward digestion –

so here’s a suggestion:

if means could be found

to turn me around

I could hide my face

from the human race

and I wouldn’t need words –

I’d behave like the birds

and the message I’d send

would be through my rear end.

Kate O’Neil

Favourites by Jenny Erlanger

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Favourites

You might like the Crunchie, an excellent pick,

this miniature, choc-coated honeycomb brick

or what about something the colour of cream?

If that’s sounding tempting, then try out the Dream.

There’s Dairy Milk, Picnic and Mint Bubbly too,

all of them sitting here waiting for you.

If fruit mixed with coconut’s what you like best

the Cherry Ripe option is what I’d suggest.

There’s smooth Caramello and crumbling Flake.

It’s not such an easy decision to make.

This might be the last time we’re offered such treats.

You’d better choose wisely from all of these sweets.

But just let me warn you, we don’t want a fight.

So stay right away from that Turkish Delight!

Jenny Erlanger 

Scribbly Gums by Kate O’Neil

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Scribbly Gums

 

Tall custodians of scribbled mysteries,

What can you tell us, silent trees?

What tunnelling scribes find sanctuary

within this covert library?

 

Mere larvae, small but diligent,

whose little lives are wholly spent

to leave these ciphers in your care

’til later times reveal them there.

 

What is the urgent need that drives

this tracery of transient lives?

What are the messages layered here

in darkness? Why, year after year

 

do you allow these prophets in?

Is there an itch beneath your skin?

Are you, tall gums, merely content

to give their need your nourishment?

 

Or do your lives and theirs conspire

to keep these riddles from our eye

’til when these poets take their leave,

you wear their heartsongs on your sleeve?

 

 Kate O’Neil

 Kate Said: The scribbly gum is a eucalyptus tree with a very smooth, pale trunk. The distinctive brownish ‘scribbles’ are made by the larvae of the tiny scribbly moth.

 

Can Snails? by Bridh Hancock

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Can Snails?

 

Can snails die of too-long-life?,

Of too much travel and fun?

Have they a self-destruction gene?,

And might it be overcome?

 

Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,

With lots of food all fresh and green,

Where every snail would soon grow sharp,

And fleet of foot, and mean;

Where shells would be both smart and hard,

Affording real protection,

Where any bait a snail might take

Would prove a sweet confection.

 

How long or soon before a snail,

Though small its crustacean brain,

Would seek to escape its silver trail,

Nor there return again?

Bridh Hancock

Snail-fare by Katherine Gallagher

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Snail-fare

by Katherine Gallagher

 

Hello, hello

I’m your friendly garden-

gastropod.

 

Not Matisse’s snail —

he’s a fast one, flying through space

on a rainbowed thread — a clever clever

slippery flippery

purple snail on a purple trail,

heading into green and orange and yellow…

You can’t miss him.

 

I’m the quiet type,

going places

at my own pace

under my hard hat

 

always on the lookout

for any big boot

coming my way

as I leave my silver

trail without fail

on green green places.

 Katherine Gallagher

Kathrine said: Matisse’s snail hangs in the Tate Gallery, London.

Snail Allergies by Walter de Jong

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by Walter de Jong

Dear planter of my paradise,

I wanted to you to know

how much that I appreciate

the great greens that you grow

When whispering spring awoke me

From my winter’s hibernation

I beheld a feast prepared for me

beyond imagination

For twenty years we’ve shared this place

And pickings have been poor

But now we’ve got this vegie patch

It’s looking up for sure

There’s one thing I should mention though

I’m sure it’s not your fault

You might not understand

That I’m allergic to that salt.

Walter de Jong

Who’s Home? by Monty Edwards

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WHO’S HOME?

 

You will find him in your garden

Yet he’ll always be at home,

Which is strange, because he travels,

Though he never far will roam,

For his movement is quite sluggish

And he often stops to eat.

If you’re growing nice green lettuce,

He considers that a treat!

 

With his eyes on stalks like flowers,

He can find his favourite food.

Never interrupt him eating,

Or he’ll think you’re very rude!

Do not fear that he’ll attack you

As he cannot throw a punch;

He will just be feeling cranky

That you’ve spoiled his lovely lunch!

 

Since his home he carries with him,

He will never mind the rain

And if anything should scare him,

He just goes inside again!

You will look in vain for footprints

But you’ll see his silver trail.

Do you think you know his name now . . . ?

Yes, you’ve got it! . . . Mr Snail!

Monty Edwards

It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail! by Stephen Whiteside

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It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail!

 

It’s hard to rock and roll a lot

When you are born a snail.

My goo connects me to this spot.

I know it looks a bit like snot,

But lose it, and I fail.

I’d like to twist and jump and leap.

Alas, it’s not my thing.

All I ever do is creep.

I’ll handle inclines very steep,

But don’t ask me to sing!

I cannot hold a microphone,

Or handle a guitar.

Speakers, amps, I do not own.

I’m happy munching on my own.

I’ll never be a star.

But if it ever gets too loud,

You yearn for breaking free

From all that rock and rolling crowd,

Remember me, for I’m not proud.

Yes, come and talk to me.

© Stephen Whiteside 05.12.2015

Butterfly Mother by Di Bates

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BUTTERFLY MOTHER

Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.

On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.

Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?

by Di Bates