One day, as part of my ongoing plan
I’ll surf in Hawaii and ski in Japan.
I’ll hike in the Andes, I’ll cycle through Spain
I’ll jet round the world in my own private plane.
I’ll go on safari, see rhinos, gazelles.
I’ll hop off to Venice and ride its canals.
I’ll sit in a rocket and head for the stars,
I’ll travel to Jupiter, Saturn and Mars.
One day of mine will be truly unique
but what should I do for the rest of that week?
A wooden case from days gone by,
Was found in Castle Cove by Kai.
The case was worn, the timber stressed,
Inside old coins? We guessed with zest.
The number twenty-five was writ,
A symbol, £, preceding it.
Is this a clue? Can’t wait to see,
A treasure trove for Kai and me.
A rusty handle, latch and hinge,
Accompanied by mouldy tinge –
Did fill the air with damp and must.
I held my breath and gave a thrust.
The lock was picked and thrown away,
And parchment lifted to display –
Some invitations to a show,
With royal insignia inked below.
Lynette said: Although the crate reminded me of a vintage ammo box, I wrote about an alternative possibility.
I need to walk each morning because there’s a horse that waits for me to rub its nose.
Though whether I stay five minutes or an hour,
I can never rub away its loneliness.
I need to walk so I can talk to a white dog that prowls in endless circles,
forever haunted by a chain, that cuts us both.
My Gran’s place is an unchanging one
And I always visit when horridly glum.
She doesn’t go in for changing trends
Of fashion, hairdo’s or marital friends.
Everything’s the same, as long as I’ve known
The clock in the hall, the old fashioned phone.
She opens her door with a welcoming smile
And says ‘Hello love, come in for a while.’
Mum’s moved to a flat, small but not cosy,
Door to door concrete, and neighbours nosy.
No bike riding, skateboarding or making a noise
Pets not allowed, and they hate little boys.
Sometimes I go to stay with Dad
but after a while I start to feel mad.
A fresh new start, my stepmother said
And threw everything out, even my bed.
The kitchen’s never messy with cooking,
Everything’s tidy and modern looking.
The back verandah is now a study,
With nowhere to leave anything muddy.
Gran’s furniture’s shabby, and I like it a lot,
A smoking wood stove, and soup in the pot.
The broken down stool in my favourite nook
The bookshelf that has my very first book.
An expensive video game sits at home,
But it doesn’t compensate for nights alone.
Dad takes me fishing and for drives galore
(He never acted like this before!)
My Gran’s world is warm and friendly,
Nothing there is ever trendy.
I love to visit when feeling blue,
And pretend that my world’s unchanging too.
Previous published in House of Sprouts (OUP 1988) and Positive Words (May 2008)
Pelting: washing
the windows
rinsing roofs
rolling mud and stone
downriver
pushing earth
into sea
pulling grass
tree bush creeper
moss
out of dirt
pushing trees over
running
walking
tiptoeing
balancing in the air
stamping its feet
escaping from thunder
rushing headlong
dripping down
lightning’s white path
I can tell you about the weather.
Am I growing or shrinking?
I can show you how a paper boat floats,
and be a mirror for your smiling face.
I can be a drink for a thirsty bird,
or a short slurp for a cat on the prowl.
I can annoy new shoes,
but splashing gum boots love me.
I can be a short stay hostel
for tadpoles or mozzie larvae.
I can be temporary and tempting.
I have possibilities and potential.
I am a puddle.
Kate’s the quickest in our class
At working fractions out,
Wayne’s a whiz at Mental Maths,
He doesn’t mess about.
Tran’s a turbo-jet on skates,
But Polly owns the pool,
She swims the 100 metres
Like a fish on rocket fuel.
Sam’s a super sprinter,
Always first across the line,
Jess is quick to say, “Well done,”
And give the thumbs-up sign.
Chen’s a champ at cleaning up,
He empties every bin!
Emmy’s quickest with a joke,
And William’s quick to grin.
Me? I’m the lazy, laid-back type,
I like to take things slow,
But when Ms Mark says, “Class dismissed,”
Well, you should see me go!
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!
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
Jenny said: I was always a very nervous competitor in school swimming sports and dreaded the sound of the starting pistol.
I poked a purple platypus
So playfully I prodded
It peered out of a pumpkin patch
it winked at me and nodded
The platypus was at a loss
no reason was there known
why he was in a pumpkin patch
and not his river home
I gently pushed him in a box
this muddled monotreme
and set him free to swim again
down at our local stream
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 said: No bottle in this poem, but the illustration brings up the feeling.
Australian Children’s Poetry 