There’s a possum on my roof
and he’s not eating cake
He is stomping up and down
keeping me awake
There’s a possum on my roof
learning the highland fling
He is happily enjoying it
but it’s not my sort of thing
There a possum on my roof
tapping out a beat
He finds it pretty handy
having thumbs on both his feet
There’s a possum on my roof
I wish he would go home
Up to his branch in the tree
and leave me quietly alone
I could have gone for a morning walk
but I just stayed in my bed.
I might have seen the sunrise
but I dreamed a dream instead.
I could have run a marathon
but I’m a bit slow on my feet.
I might have won a medal
if there weren’t so many to beat.
I could have painted a masterpiece
if I had the motivation
I could’ve been known far and wide
but I lacked the application.
I might have been a master chef
as I’m one who’s out to dine.
I could have prepared a delicious meal
but I just ran out of time.
I could have done a lot of things
but I have a plan instead.
I’ll just sit here with my cup of tea
and perform them in my head.
I wonder what’s out in the ocean,
hiding under the sea?
A coral reef or a pirate ship,
with a chest full of treasure for me?
I wonder what’s out in the ocean,
hiding under the waves?
A great big whale or a dolphin,
or an octopus in a cave?
I don’t know what’s out in the ocean,
it’s too far away to reach.
So I’ll just close my eyes and dream
here on the soft sandy beach.
A Tjuntjuntjara desert dog
Is howling at the moon.
Just one at first, then more join in
This ancient howling growling tune.
[Don’t ask me why.
It’s the just their way.
They’ve done it every single day
Since dogs began!]
And very soon, and very soon,
The entire yip-yap yelping mob,
Yes, the whole red-dirt platoon
Of Tjuntjuntjara desert dogs
Is howling at the moon.
Stewart Ennis is from Bridge of Weir, Scotland. Since the 1980s he’s worked in Scottish theatre as writer, deviser, performer and occasional photographer. He was creative writing tutor in Scottish prisons and editor of Causeway/Cabhsair magazine of new Irish & Scottish writing. His plays, poems, stories and photographs have appeared on a number of stages, pages and platforms. A debut novel Blessed Assurance was published in 2020. Recent work includes writing the children’s film animation Yoyo & The Little Auk for Royal Scottish National Orchestra. He’s currently at Curtin University for the second year of an Aberdeen-Curtin Alliance scholarship PhD in creative writing. He recently some time in wonderful Tjuntjuntjara documenting the Spinifex artists at work and play.
Upon arrival of September
There’s one thing I do remember:
Winter’s gone and spring is here
Bringing warmth back to the year.
Giving us more outdoor fun,
Extra time beneath the sun.
Walking barefoot on the grass,
Sipping fruit juice from a glass.
Football finals if you’re keen;
Horses racing on the green.
Pack your coats and gloves away,
Birds within your backyard play.
Birthing time for kangaroos,
Platypus and wombats too.
Blossoms grow with colours fair,
Pollen floating through the air.
Of spring I’m a great believer,
So why now must I have hay fever?
How can I smell a lovely rose
When suffering from an itchy nose?
I long to feel the evening breeze
Without an urge to cough and sneeze.
But let me cast those thoughts asunder;
Spring should be a time of wonder.
So sit beneath a shady tree,
Go watch the surfers at the sea.
I love the springtime sunset skies,
Albeit seen through teary eyes.
A sensible hat is sensible
if worn in a sensible way
by a sensible type of person
at a sensible time of day.
A sensible hat can be silly
ugly, tattered or old
a sensible type of hat
is just that, sensible “so I’m told!”
Rose is red and Violet’s all blue
Rose loved painting,
Violet loved it too.
Rose painted with red,
Violet with blue.
They crept out of bed,
To paint in the night.
But Mum came in,
‘Aaaagh!’ And got such a fright.
‘Sorry Mummy,’ said Rose, all red.
‘Sorry Mummy,’ said Violet, all blue.
‘It’s okay, my little monsters,
‘I know what to do.’
Mum drew a big bath,
And plopped them both in.
Whooshed them round,
And into a spin.
The monsters spun round,
Splished and splashed.
Water whirled round,
And both colours clashed.
Now Violet wasn’t blue,
And Rose was not red.
‘Yippeeee!’ they cried,
‘We’re purple instead!’
Now Mum feeling faint,
Took out some more paint.
‘Perhaps some white,
Will fix them all right.’
The water whooshed round,
And down the sink.
‘Aaaagh!’ wailed mum,
‘My monsters are pink.’
Nanna came in,
with a towel so green.
She scrubbed while she dried,
Until they were clean.
Not purple or pink,
Or blue or red.
But finally all green,
And ready for bed.
Morning sun throws out gold to fill up the sky,
I wake, thoughts wash through my brain as I lie.
I eat in a room full of joy and sunshine
And vow to myself that this day shall be mine.
I pack up my things and climb on my bike
And pedal and pedal, this is just what I like!
Happiness bubbles I recognise glee,
I dance and I twirl. This is me, this is me!
I pedal back home with a smile on my face,
I need no one to tell me I’m in just the right place.
The moon rises up as I sink into sleep
And dreams take my soul to a midnight blue deep.
Patti said: I love sing song poetry for children and this one was written for my ‘child self’!A scorpion christened Cruella, left home to search for a fella.
She sifted through sand and she searched under slate.
She peered under pebbles to look for a mate.
She reached under rocks and she gazed at the ground
but a masculine mini beast couldn’t be found.
Cruella, poor creature, was filled with despair.
There had to be someone who loved her out there.
But wait! She heard rustling and spotted the cause.
From a burrow appeared some spectacular claws.
They belonged to a sumptuous scorpion male.
What glorious eyes, and that sting in his tail!
It was love at first sight for Cruella and friend,
Which is how satisfactory quests all should end.
Australian Children’s Poetry 