Cautiously, creeping down the stairs,
carefully avoiding the creaks,
we stop
and take each other’s hand.
At the bottom we tiptoe,
trembling,
towards the door.
Almost afraid to breath
we slowly, gently, push it open.
Beneath the twinkling lights
sit the gifts.
‘He’s been,’ we whisper
‘He’s been.’
(Published 2014 by Celapene Press, Short and Twisted and Thynks Publications Bards at Blidworth and Beyond Anthology of Poems)
Compound Interest
You are the jingle in my bells
The tick in my tock
The flash in my light
The spring in my time
The whirl in my wind
The tell in my tale
You are the ever in my lasting
The ginger in my bread
The life in my boat
It has to be said
THIS SEASON
The moon tonight is a marble,
perfect and white.
See it there
above the rows of trees
bare-limbed and angular
lifting hands
as if in prayer
in the valley
that continues forever.
Comes dawn and warmth for
the slumbering bed of seeds
laid in rows like soldiers,
mute, and obedient to the seasons.
Comes a drizzle of rain
and baby fingers unfold,
reach for the yellow hot goodness
of sun.
Comes the gardener
Who tends the struggling army
defends it against the enemy,
the battalions of flying and crawling insects
and the dryness of earth;
She sprays, hoes,
waits for the hostage stems to unfurl,
to stretch, to uncurl.
Comes the leaves,
the unfolding flowers, and then…
ah yes,
the plant ripe with fruit,
the scent of Eden in the air!
© Dianne Bates
I could be quite mistaken
but I’m feeling pretty sure
that polliwog’s a word
you’ve never come across before.
And pobblebonk’s another,
with a funny kind of sound,
a word I’m also certain
you have never seen around.
They’re not a type of candy
or variety of fish.
They’re not exotic items
in some oriental dish.
They don’t have beaks or feathers
and they’re not a breed of dog.
A polliwog’s a tadpole
and a pobblebonk’s a frog.
How will you travel, on foot or by train?
What if it’s cold, if it threatens to rain?
When are we likely to see you again?
Do you know when you’re going to be back?
I think that the tram and the bus would be good.
I’ll pack an umbrella and coat with a hood.
I’d give you a date if I thought that I could
but it might be a year down the track.
Won’t you be lonely with nowhere to stay?
When are you leaving, what time of the day?
Why are you planning on moving away?
Is everything really that bad?
I’m taking my toys. I’ll have plenty to do.
I’m banking on leaving the house around two.
And now that you ask, I’m escaping from you!
Your questions are driving me mad!
My kitties are expert at sleeping
To warm places they’re always creeping
Like the soft, cozy nests
Of undies and vests
That we leave on the couch for safe keeping.
Nadine Cranenburgh
Australian Children’s Poetry 