Tag Archives: rhyming poems

Beetrice by Edwina Smith

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Beetrice is all abuzz
A busy buzzing bee
Busy as a bee can be
Her home inside a tree

Shall we look and see
What she really does?
The busy bee she needs to be
Aside from all the buzz

Deep within the hive
She works her busy legs
Taking care of ‘Queenie’
While she lays more eggs

Lots of little larvae
Needing to be fed
Making sure each one has
A share of sweet bee bread

Working waxy wonders
Rooms with walls of six
Holding strong for so long
There’s no need for sticks

A fussy, clever cleaner
She keeps a spotless home
Life’s such a buzz within
Her world of honeycomb

But beware of Beetrice
Best to let her be
Show respect for her place
A home inside that tree

Should it be disturbed
The hive a bee defends
She’s got quite a sting
And so have all her friends

Lots to do in Summer
Young ones can’t get hot
Busy Beetrice fans her wings
Or else they’ll lose the lot

United with her sisters
Workers make a breeze
Cooling down bees to be
Together done with ease

Foraging for nectar
Changing it to honey
On the wing from dawn to dusk
While the days are sunny

Visiting the flowers
Beetrice never stops
She helps feed our nation
By pollinating crops

What a wonderous worker
A busy buzzing bee
Without busy Beetrice
Where would we be?

Could she understand
What bees do for us?
She’s probably too busy now
Too busy for a fuss

Busy buzzing Beetrice
Thank you for the honey
To have on buttered toast
Golden, sweet and runny!

And for tasty fruit
You work away for hours
There’s apples, pears and cherries
From pollinated flowers

We are so grateful
For treats such as these
May there always be
Busy buzzing bees!

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay

Man Made Diary by Celia Berrell

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When did we start
having so much stuff?
To go without
would be cold and tough.

Two-and-a-half
million years ago
a few stone tools
was all we could show.

Three hundred thousand
years before now
we’d arrows and spears
and fire knowhow.

By seventy thousand
an Ice Age had stressed
those poor chilly humans
and made them get dressed!

Image from Pixabay

Alot Doesn’t Exist by Darren McErlain

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‘Twas a dark and stormy night among the horrible sixteen seas,

When the Pirate ship O’Hara, sailed into the dock of Fees.

It slammed into the port and jolted the ship ashore,

With sailors from the top deck attempting to break the law.

They took out a massive chainsaw and split the land in two,

By cutting a symmetrical pattern a new folklore grew and grew.

The traditional land of A lot was cut into two equal halves,

With two new entry points and stencil-crete ridden paths.

The two lands were divided and needed a name of their own,

So the Captain did some thinking, as the history has shown.

One land part was called “A” and was granted an official name,

Whilst the other land parcel called “LOT” had a symbol of a flame.

The two towns were now known as “A” and “Lot”,

And for teachers, this certainly hit the spot.

The town Alot became extinct, and was kicked off every map,

The word no longer existed – a new agreement signed in sap.

The Doctopus by James Aitchison

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If you’re a fish and you get sick,
who do you go and see?
The Doctopus will help you —
he’s your undersea GP.
He’s qualified to treat
watery infections,
and because he has eight hands,
he’ll give you eight injections.
From sore sardines and sneezing sharks
to tonsil-troubled tuna,
the Doctopus will fix you —
you’ll feel much better sooner.

Photo from Stockcake

The Flinders Ranges by James Aitchison

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The mighty ramparts rise above the plain,

where once the plains were sea.

And you might think how harsh it looks,

yet beautiful it seems to me.

A world of red soil, stone and silence,

of ancient legends told ’round fires,

of peace and fascination

to my tired city eyes.

Flinders Ranges, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Where Old Kangaroos Go To Die by James Aitchison

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Old kangaroos with worn-down teeth

cannot get any nutrition.

They sense they will die, so their final hours 

are driven by intuition.

Their know hollow trees 

are their best safe havens,

to save their eyes

being pecked out by ravens. 

The lucky roos will die in peace,

sheltered inside a tree,

beyond the reach of enemies

who would feast on them with glee.

Such is life in the bush —

relentless, wild and cruel,

a never-ending circle 

of life, death and renewal.

The Cazneaux tree, Flinders Ranges, Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Amelia Hicks by Marque DoBrow

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A girl named Amelia Hicks,

Went to Discount Day at the flicks.

She sat right through Jaws,

Halloween and Star Wars

For a cost of Sixteen Sixty-six.

Image from Pexels by GEORGE DESIPRIS

Limerick Day by James Aitchison

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May the twelfth is Limerick Day,

So I thought I’d better just say,

Limericks are fun,

Have a go at one,

Grab your pen without delay!

Image from Pexels by picjumbo.com

The Desert Party by Celia Berrell

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It hardly rains
but when it pours
on sleepy desert ground
the speedy changes
to the land
will certainly astound.

A dried-up creek
now overflows
expanding to a lake.
And dormant life-forms
eggs and seeds
immediately awake.

The dry red dirt
transforms into
a carpet made of flowers.
And tiny creatures
start to hatch
within a few short hours.

With decorations
all in place
the waterbirds arrive.
Providing
lots of music.
Now the party’s come alive!

First Published in CSIRO’s Scientriffic #66 2009

Image by G.C. from Pixabay

Old Friends by Pauline Cleary

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You bought us in Summer when we were sparkly new:
brilliant white, shiny bright with a stripe of navy blue.

You took us to netball; you took us to the pool.
We went on an excursion, a casual day at school.

We got a little grimy; we got a little worn,
a scratch on the left heel; one lace was partially torn.

We played in the garden. We trudged on a hike.
We toured around the neighbourhood, pedalling on your bike.

We got a little tawdry; our tread was worn down low,
a scuff here, a mark there; a hole in one toe.

We stomped in muddy puddles. We danced in the rain.
We got a little water-logged. We got a little stained.

As we sit on the backstep, we’re hardly sparkly new.
We’re a muddy sort of brown with a faded stripe of blue.

But if we could have our druthers, I’m sure we’d rather be
nothing more than what we are: your favourite pair of shoes.

Image by Jerzy from Pixabay