Tag Archives: rhyming poems

Getting Sorted by James Aitchison

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One day I opened my wardrobe

and all the junk fell out!

Ten pairs of filthy shoes 

and a half-eaten Brussels sprout.

There were socks that smelled really gross,

some old underpants and a book,

and in a plastic lunchbox,

I found the remains of a chook.

A football my dog had chewed,

a tube of cream for my zits,

a few dead flies and a lizard,

and a shirt that no longer fits.

Such a disgusting mess —

I didn’t know what to say.

Back into the wardrobe it went,

To be sorted another day!

Image from Pixabay

Bobby the Bilby by Linda Davidson

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Bobby the Bilby is cute as can be.
He’s very shy and hides from me.
With long ears and a pointy nose
He builds his burrow with clawed toes.

I want to pat his soft grey fur.
Down a burrow he dashes in a blur.
Should I wait in the pale moonlight,
or come back again tomorrow night?

TIME TO GROW by Sharon Davson

BUTTERFLY MOTHER by Dianne Bates

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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?

Image by Pexels

Kite Day by Jeanette Swan

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The whoosh of the wind has lifted its sail.

It flips and flaps and flicks its tail.

My kit-packet kite is pecking the sky,

jigging and jagging, higher and higher!

Soaring in circles – a marvellous thing!

I am the keeper.

I hold the string.

Oops, it’s  in a tree…

Image from Pixabay

Lost Kite by Celia Berrell

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I’ve got a kite
whose tail’s quite white.
It’s strong and light
in colours bright.

With wind just right
my kite gains height.
The string’s pulled tight.
My kite’s in flight!

But my delight
soon turns to plight
when wind-gusts bite
with forceful spite
and push my kite
with such great might
the string can’t fight
and snaps in fright.

My falling kite’s
no more in flight
and lost to sight
as day turns night.

Image by Pixabay

Who wants to live here? by James Aitchison

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Now that’s what I call a house,
with lots of space for everyone.
Lots of stairs to run up and down,
and a room on the roof just for fun.
I could play my music really loud —
Mum and Dad wouldn’t hear it at all.
My siblings would be out of my way,
at the other end of a long, long hall.
But when it’s time for dinner,
there’s a problem I can see:
by the time I went down all that way
there’d be nothing left for me!

English stately home. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Sleep Well  by Celia Berrell

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Eight hours, eight hours of sleep is best

to keep us healthy. Give us rest.

Eight hours brings opportunities

to strengthen our immunities.

To fight off winter’s colds and ‘flu.

Protecting us from cancer too.

For young and old; both short and lanky

lack of sleep can make us cranky.

Take away that eight-hour chunk

and brains act like they’re getting drunk!

Eight hours, eight hours of sleep a day

helps keep us well, live long and play.

Image from Pixabay

What shall we paint today? by James Aitchison

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With watercolours or oil,

the choice is up to you.

The canvas is totally blank,

just like a day that’s new.

Perhaps you’ll draw with pencil,

or sketch with pen and ink,

why not give charcoal a go —

then sit back and see what you think.

With every single brushstroke,

with every line you draw,

you’ll create an image

that’s unmistakably yours.

Famous painter Hans Heysen’s studio at Hahndorf, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Swamped With Mystery! by James Aitchison

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Oh what a lovely swamp —

I can hear things going ker-plomp!

And even though it’s blue on top,

underneath it’s slop-slop-slop.

Birds swoop low, fish dive deep,

crocodiles open their eyes for a peek.

The trees haven’t seen their roots for years

and nothing is really what it appears.

It’s all very murky and muddy in there,

and who knows what will come up for air?

Undara, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana

My Dining Room by James Aitchison

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If I were a koala, 

how happy I would be.

I’d have one branch for dinner,

and another one for tea.

There’d be no washing up,

and nothing else to do:

so I’d curl up nice and high,

and sleep an hour or two.

Photo from Pexels by Flip Side