From morning to evening its scream can be heard,
a warning to all from this dive-bombing bird.
My brother’s too frightened to venture outdoors.
He’s already suffered a scratch from its claws
and Dad has to run from the house to the shed
his arms waving stupidly over his head.
It happens the moment we step out of place,
that flurry of feathers, that beak in the face.
So, hurry up babies and fly from your nest.
Your mother’s becoming a serial pest.
Jenny Erlanger
There’s a trillion stars
and one of them’s Mars,
and that’s where I’m wanting to go.
It shines brightly red
‘mongst stars overhead,
a warming and welcoming glow.
A star it not be?
No difference to me.
It lives way out there in deep space.
Can’t save for a house
on this planet of ours
so I’m thinking that Mars is the place.
I’m planning a trip,
booked on a space ship
that’s due to depart in the spring.
I will be space suited,
luggage is included,
I will not be packing a thing.
I’ll have all new neighbours,
they live in the craters,
antennae on top of their head.
They ‘re tiny and green,
but they’re easily seen
‘gainst a backdrop of nothing but red.
So wish me good luck
as I pack my space truck
to head off to the great unknown.
Don’t worry at all,
I’ll give you a call
if I can get bars on my phone.
I’ll try for a while,
continue to dial,
I’ll contact you, never you fear.
If I can’t get through
a post card will do,
that simply says ‘Wish you were here’.
Allan Cropper
All the day long, the bluebird sings,
High in the trees, high on the wing.
All the day long, the red cow eats,
Moos and eats, moos and eats.
All the night long, the blue dog howls,
Keeps up the neighbours with his sad yowls.
All the night long, the red fox prowls,
Watch out you farmers, lock up your fowls!
Sophie Masson
Too hot to sleep, kick off sheet,
tiptoe downstairs
and out into the cool night air.
Earth’s night light so still and round,
resting in a blanket of stars.
A creaking board,
movement,
a hug,
Mum’s out here too.
Kaye Baillie
The party was great.
I’ve got so much to tell
but I can’t do it now,
I’m not feeling too well.
I don’t want to chuck
but I know that I will.
Is it something I ate
that is making me ill?
The frankfurts and sauce
can’t have made me feel bad.
The ten that I ate
were the best that I’ve had.
And it wasn’t the chips
that I had as a snack
as we all raced around
on the dodgem car track.
It might have been what
I was drinking instead,
that bottle of stuff
that was fizzy and red
that I drank when my mouth
was all dried up inside
after screaming so much
on the Gravitron ride.
Or could it have been
what I had as a treat,
something I’ve wanted
forever to eat,
that mountain of fairy floss
stuck to a stick?
Quick, pass me the bucket,
I’m going to be sick.
Jenny Erlanger
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
When dear Uncle Wally slips off his shoes
Warnings go out on the six o’clock news
The smell is so bad that you might like to choose…
To sneak out and just run away.
When dear Uncle Wally takes off his socks
It sets off alarm bells and stops all the clocks
They ought to be burned or else locked in a box
And then taken far far away.
When dear Uncle Wally wriggles his toes
You can see as the fungal bacteria grows
Does he wash his toes? I guess nobody knows
I pray that he’ll wash them today.
When dear Uncle Wally rubs at his feet
The smell it emits is like old rotting meat
The air freshener spray can hardly compete
With that sweaty foot odour bouquet.
Pooh!!!
Allan Cropper
Not as lucky as a Las Vegas dollar
nor as silver,
but if you look inside panelled rooms
there may be several silverfish
touring endlessly in the house of a miser
or in one of those 19th century cottages
where the rain soaks North Somerset,
bookshelves covered in trench coats.
You know that silverfish chew into glue,
plaster, paint, photos, sugar, coffee,
hair, carpet, clothing, dandruff,
book bindings and paper (and that’s
a lot to get through in a week!)
Imagine one slippery silverfish
in a musty library of a French poet
travelling through paragraphs of Reverdy,
John Donne, Simone De Beauvoir or Sartre,
his hunger moving toward simile and speech,
words curling into little white ropes
and lifting from the page,
one letter at a time.
Helen Hagemann
I’ve taken our rubbish bins out to the street.
I’ve helped wash and vacuum the car.
My bedroom is finally looking as neat
as all of the other rooms are.
I’ve weeded the garden, the front and the back.
I’ve cut up the veggies for tea.
I’ve dried all the dishes Mum left in the rack
and now I’m as tired as can be.
I’ve brought in the clothes ’cause it’s going to rain,
I think I deserve a reward.
I made a mistake when I chose to complain
of feeling so terribly bored!
Jenny Erlanger
Giants are we that see
those little mites
of black and legs
following their tales
of trails
carrying to nest
their loads at least
the weight of three
but a mere grain
to you and me
Myra King
Kale is not a thing of beauty
matt deep green leaves
as dark as night
their underside a network
of wrinkled veins.
Washed
ready for the pot
but there is a surprise!
Glistening glass-like watery jewels
shine and shiver
trapped in membrane pockets
soon to be darkened leaves
again.
Kay Baillie
Australian Children’s Poetry 