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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

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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.”

 

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Lying on the Beach

 

One day I saw a bottle that was lying on the sand.

I asked: “Why are you lying?” Then I grabbed it with my hand.

The bottle made no answer and it gave a glassy stare:

It clearly felt it had a right to spend time lying there.

I saw a drip form on its lip and thought it was a tear,

Which seemed to say: “Just go away and leave me lying here.”

But I’d been taught that lying was a serious sort of sin,

So straight away, without delay, the liar went in the bin!

 

Monty Edwards
  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #7

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Monty says: The idea of using word play for this poem came while working on another poem in response to the same prompt.

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Wheels Song

 

I don’t know why I’ve got feet

when I could have had wheels,

for wheels go so much faster.

 

Imagine me flying down our street

not in my trainers or boots

but on wheels, with my ghetto-blaster.

 

Imagine people turning to stare

and all telling me to slow down

before I caused a disaster.

 

Imagine me gliding off into space

with a quick little nod to the Moon,

then simply going straight past her. . .

 

© Katherine Gallagher

(Published in Through a Window, Longman, 1995)

  • Submitted in Response to 2016 Poetry Prompt #42

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SCHOOL DAZE

My mind is muddled, I feel befuddled,

bewildered and confused.

I think the space inside my brain

has been completely used.

There’s no room left for algebra,

or history or dates,

So I’ll be marching out of school,

please open up the gates.

What’s that you say? You’ll ring my mum?

You’ll call my dad as well?

Well, silly me, there seems to be

some room left in there still.

I guess I’ll stay and learn some more

until the final bell.

© Allan Cropper
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4

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Cuttle Wish

 

Cuttlefish arms are in the place

where most of us would have a face.

Front-on they look like elephants

with lots and lots of tiny trunks.

 

Their skin can change its colouring

to make their bodies blend right in.

Their eyes have slits like wavy lines

instead of pupils round like mine.

 

Safe in their see-through eggy shell

Cuttlefish babies see quite well.

Before they’re old enough to hatch

they’ve seen the food they wish to catch!

Celia Berrell
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #8

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Celia said: At birth, human babies have blurry vision.  It takes a while to master how to focus on different things.  In contrast, a cuttlefish’s eyes are fully developed before they hatch from their see-through egg.  Just imagine being able to see all the food you want eat floating by … but you can’t get to it!  Is that like having a blurred appetite?

 

http://www.babycenter.com.au/a6508/developmental-milestones-sight

Your baby’s sight develops somewhat gradually, unlike her hearing, which is fully mature by the end of her first month. At birth, her vision is pretty fuzzy, though she can make out light, shapes, and movement.
http://www.mesa.edu.au/atoz/cuttlefish.asp

 

Ecology: The origin of the word cuttlefish can be found in the old English term cudele, itself derived in the 1400s from the Norwegian koddi (testicle) and the Middle German kudel (pouch), a literal description of the cephalopod’s shape. Cuttlefish have an internal shell (cuttlebone), large W-shaped pupils, and eight arms and two tentacles furnished with suckers, with which they secure their prey. Cuttlefish eat small molluscs, crabs, shrimp, fish and other cuttlefish. Their predators include dolphins, sharks, fish, seals and other cuttlefish. Their life expectancy is about one to two years.

 

Interesting facts/Status: Cuttlefish are sometimes referred to as the chameleons of the sea because of their remarkable ability to rapidly alter their skin color at will. Their skin flashes a fast-changing pattern as communication to other cuttlefish and to camouflage them from predators. This color-changing function is produced by groups of red, yellow, brown, and black pigmented chromatophores above a layer of reflective iridophores and leucophores, with up to 200 of these specialized pigment cells per square millimeter. The pigmented chromatophores have a sac of pigment and a large membrane that is folded when retracted. There are 6-20 small muscle cells on the sides which can contract to squash the elastic sac into a disc against the skin. All of these cells can be used in combinations.

Cuttlefish eyes are among the most developed in the animal kingdom. Scientists have speculated that cuttlefish’s eyes are fully developed before birth and start observing their surroundings while still in the egg. The blood of a cuttlefish is an unusual shade of green-blue because it uses the copper-containing protein hemocyanin to carry oxygen instead of the red iron-containing protein hemoglobin that is found in mammals. The blood is pumped by three separate hearts, two of which are used for pumping blood to the cuttlefish’s pair of gills and the third for pumping blood around the rest of the body.

 

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Lucky

 

My class is so lucky.

This term we’re learning about life cycles,

so my teacher brought in some tadpoles-

three big black commas

swimming around in a plastic aquarium

right beside our desks.

 

We named them

Freddo,

Kermit

and Spot.

 

Freddo was the first to grow

stumps

legs

more legs

then his tail shrunk

until his body was a fat full stop.

 

‘But what do we do with our frog?’

asked Mrs Chugg with a frown.

My hand shot up quicker than a speeding mosquito.

‘I’ve got a pond!’

So, she poked some holes in a butter tub

and sent Freddo home with me.

‘Lucky duck,’ said Ben.

 

I carried my precious passenger

down the street

around the back

then knelt beside our weedy pond

and gently tipped him in.

 

Freddo swam to a lily pad

half scrambled on and gazed around

at the water

reeds

insects

and grassy bank

before frog-kicking into the murky depths.

 

Compared to Kermit and Spot

with their four plastic walls,

I’d say he’s pretty lucky.

Kristin Martin

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blurred

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art Class

For Vincent’s  ‘The  Starry,  Starry Night’

 

Outlines crash into swirls

Miss Del Amico asks, what do you see?

Is that a sky of blue curls?

Outlines crash into swirls

Time to dive for some pearls

Will I find this painting’s key?

Outlines crash into swirls

Miss Del Amico asks, what do you see ?

June Perkins
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #8

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June said: This is a triolet using the prompt ‘Blurred.’ The first words that came into my head were, ‘outlines crash into swirls’.

The trickiest thing with this poem was picking the artist.  Would they be someone I personally knew who painted, a fictional small child, or someone who everyone knows that paints?  I thought of a famous artist who used swirls, Vincent Van Gough.

I added the dedication to help with understanding of the poem.

I imagine this poem is an art class for early childhood with a teacher who likes to introduce the children to great artists, and likes to encourage them to look beyond the surface of the painting, into what it means to the artist who paints it.  I decided to name the teacher after my favourite art teacher at high school.

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Forgetting how to ride a bike

 

My father loved the stars

In another life,

permitted education,

his facility with numbers

might have made him

a famous astronomer

instead of an accountant

See that bright one?

That’s Beetle-juice

I remember him telling

Yes, I’d say meekly

wishing to please

But I couldn’t of course

It was all just fuzzy blobs

 

See that milkbar on the corner?

No I said. Didn’t want to be sent

somewhere I couldn’t see

Stupid child! they thought

It never occurred to them

that I really couldn’t see.

 

So on my seventh birthday

a bicycle purple painted,

with Virginia

in gold down the crossbar

the most beautiful bike ever seen

I was terrified

to ride it, I couldn’t see

where I was going,

what was in front

I walked it to school

to Brownies after school

to have it admired,

to show it off

but I couldn’t actually ride it.

 

Six months later

my myopia finally spotted by a teacher

I learned to ride with my new glasses

I was never very good

never enthusiastic

never worthy of the bike’s beauty

The skill now long forgotten

Virginia Lowe
  • Submitted in response to Poetry prompt #8

poetry-prompt-8Virginia said: I was myopic (short sighted) from birth, but no one realised until a teacher called my parents when I was seven. I didn’t know of course – that’s just how the world was – it didn’t occur to me that it might look different to different people.  After I got glasses I was fine – but never really confident riding a bike, however beautiful the bike was. Now I’m old. When they removed the cataracts from my eyes, they fixed the myopia as well, so no more glasses! There are some things I miss though, especially the pattern of circles of light through a dense leaf canopy. But now I can see the birds instead. I’ll never go back to bike riding though.

I first wrote this poem in response to a prompt on another poetry site, Silver Birch Press. The prompt was ‘learning to ride a bike’. It will fit into my autobiography in verse (not yet published) A Myopic’s Vision.

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Charlie’s Lunch

 

Oops!

I’ve got my brother’s lunchbox

With The Wiggles on the lid,

He must have picked up mine instead

(He’s just a little kid.)

So Charlie’s got my health bar

And my favourite yoghurt snack,

And I’ve got little kiddie lunch –

Too late to change it back.

I could go and see the teacher,

But she’ll say, “Don’t bother me,”

I guess I’m stuck with Charlie’s lunch,

I’ll be half starved by three.

 

Here we go….what is this stuff?

One tin of custard pears,

Two egg and lettuce sandwiches

Cut into tiny squares,

Three cherry drops with jelly tops,

Four skinny carrot sticks,

Five cubes of watermelon, no,

You’d better make that six.

And right down at the bottom is-

What’s this! A chocolate crunch!

WOW!

Where’s my place? I need some space,

I’m having Charlie’s lunch.

 Jill McDougall
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4

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THE BATTLE

 

On a Monday wet and cool,

I decided on a day off school.

 

‘Get up at once,’ my mother said,

So I threw up all over the bed.

 

I groaned about feeling really horrid,

She only had to feel my forehead.

 

I knew I was sick with something contagious,

But her disbelief was really outrageous.

 

I clung to my bed, so she just got meaner,

And bashed me with the vacuum cleaner.

 

The blood that flowed from my bleeding nose,

She washed away with the garden hose.

 

She hit me with the old straw broom,

And kept chasing me from room to room.

 

At last she drove me out of the house,

And called me a dirty conniving louse.

 

I threatened to fling myself under the bus,

Determined to end this dreadful fuss.

 

When thrown on the bus with a parting curse,

I knew that life couldn’t get much worse.

 

Still dripping blood, an awful bother,

The driver threw me back to mother.

 

Didn’t she scowl as she made the decision,

That I could stay home and watch television.

 

Margaret Pearce
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4

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