Tag Archives: rhyming poems

Favourites by Pauline Cleary

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My favourite colour is purple.
My favourite food is cheese.
I’m very fond of Saturdays
when I can do whatever I please.

My favourite season is Autumn
When the leaves are red and brown
I like to cycle up steep hills
and glide the same way down

My favourite animal is zebra.
I love those crazy stripes.
Magpie is my favourite bird
dressed in black and white.

My favourite place is the seaside,
the waves, the sand, the spray.
I swim and surf and jump the waves
and play around all day.

But last, not least, I have to say
are the ones I can’t do without –
my family, friends, my little dog
are my favourites without a doubt.

What The Driver Saw by James Aitchison

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Aboard an old steam loco, 

many years ago,

the driver and the fireman 

worked by the firebox glow.

They stood upon the footplate,

wood layered over steel,

where the engine driver could

control the loco’s wheels.  

The fireman shovelled coal — 

he had no time to dream —

heating water in the boiler

to keep up lots of steam.

I Did Not See The Cat by Marcus Ten Low

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I did not see the cat play dead.

I did not see her on my head—

I did not see her hide inside

My newest hairdo wild and wide.

I did not hear her caterwaul,

Nor see the scratches on the wall,

I did not see her eat the mouse,

Or hide the body ‘neath the house.

I did not give her balls of yarns

Stored up in Grandma’s giant barns,

Nor see her with her claws destroy

Gran’s crochet, with a look so coy,

Nor leap off Grandma’s rocking-chair,

I did not see her anywhere—

I did not see her tip the vase

Of flowers, or upset the jars,

Or scowl to spy the neighbor’s cat,

Or hide under the tall top hat—

All that I saw was clearly that:

The cat sat on the mat.

Who Lived Here? by James Aitchison

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I wonder who lived here;

I wonder why they went?

What fate struck these pioneers 

and left their spirit spent?

They built their dreams to last,

stone by golden stone,

but now these dismal relics

lie ragged and alone.

Teacher’s note: One of many abandoned dwellings in Burra, South Australia.

How Now Brown Cow? by James Aitchison

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Everyone asks me

the same old question,

and it interferes

with my digestion.

How do I look

down in the mud?

The dam’s so cold

I can’t chew my cud.

So if you ask me 

how I am now,

I’m a very grubby

hungry cow.

To A Spider by Norah Colvin

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Now look here, Spider, I’m grateful to you,
For eating flies and cockroaches too.
But in my shower when it’s time for my bath –
That, I’m afraid, incurs my wrath.

With this broom, I’ll chase you out.
Please don’t jump or you’ll make me shout.
Stay very still while I get the brush,
Then into the toilet for one big flush.

Oh, poor little spider, what have I done?
I’ve gone and killed you. That’s not fun.
You didn’t deserve it, not one bit.
You should have hidden where my broom couldn’t fit.

Another spider? Does this make two?
Are you a brother? Oh no . . . it’s you!
I thought you drowned, but you’re still alive!
What’s your secret? How’d you survive?

Now you’re back, I am relieved.
No longer must I be aggrieved.
But please take heed, my leggy friend.
Don’t come too close – it will be your end.

No More Trains by James Aitchison

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Silent silo, 

commerce fails,

no more trains,

rusting rails.

Rain and wind

sweep platforms clean,

railway ghosts 

go unseen.

Teacher’s note: South Australia’s Burra railway station was a busy stop on the main line to Broken Hill and Perth.Passenger services  ceased in December 1986, and the last grain trains operated in 1999.  Volunteers have lovingly restored the station buildings. 

Polish Spring by James Aitchison

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In a Polish village,

opening to the sun,

I found all these flowers

when spring had well begun.

What a splash of colour,

I was lucky to be there,

where ancient wooden houses

huddled round the square.

Wagtails 1 2 3 by Graham Seal

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One willie wagtail sang a sweet song,

he was joined by another 

before very long.

Two willie wagtails built a snug nest

with feathers and flowers 

and leaves softly pressed.

Three willie wagtails perched in a tree,

mummy and daddy 

and baby makes three.

Spring by Toni Newell

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The temperature is rising
There’s music in the air
From birds singing loudly
Their mating calls do fair.

Bare trees now blossom
As bulbs come back to life
The sweet call of Spring
The drake looks for his wife.

Colours surrounds us
On breeze a sweet scent rides
It’s full of new beginnings
It’s Spring where hope resides.