Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

The Call of the Wind by Teena Raffa-Mulligan

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The Call of the Wind

 

The wind whispered softly through grass and through gum.

She heard it call clearly, invitingly, “Come!”

Felt fingers of freshness caressing her face,

ruffling her fur with such gentle embrace.

The earth had a freshness that comes after rain

and she heard the wind calling, again and again:

“Come and run with me, seek freedom, take flight!”

Its call roused a longing to know such delight.

 

It whispered so softly, in murmur so low.

It beckoned her, “Come,” and she wanted to go.

To forage in green grass new-kissed by the rain,

to taste of its sweetness and know once again

how it feels to run freely with life unrestrained,

to run with the wind, by a fence uncontained.

She pricked up her ears, her body was tense.

Her heart filled with longing, she leaped at the fence.

 

The sweet taste of freedom was brief – incomplete –

for she soon heard the sound of hurrying feet.

Familiar voice calling, she paused in her flight,

heard gentle voice saying, “I know it’s not right.

But sorry, old girl, I can’t let you run free.

If you’re on the loose the ranger might see

And take you away. Then you’d no more know

even brief tastes of freedom – a walk every day.

It’s not much to offer, but home you must stay.”

 

 

Teena Raffa-Mulligan 

The Conchers by Allan Cropper

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I asked my mum, “How will I know
If I do something wrong?”
She told me that my conchers would
Help me to get along.

“Just listen to your conchers and
you’ll know what you should do.”
I don’t know who my conchers are.
Some people I once knew?

“Where will I find my conchers, Mum?
Are they under my bed?
Are conchers real or make believe?
Are they inside my head?”

And then one day I heard a voice
That stopped me on the spot.
“If I were you I’d think again.
Perhaps you just should not”.

I looked around, no one was there
to say a single word.
I knew then that my conchers were
the voices that I heard.

“Listen to your heart” is the
advice that I now give.
I think that deep within the heart
is where the conchers live.

Allan Cropper

*Allan Says: Conchers = Conscience

Sorry Notes by Helen Hagemann

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Sorry Notes

In the morning when I walked outside

it was like stepping back into a previous

spring, one year ago, and counting on ten

fingers the number of mice our male cat

had dropped at the back door. So I wasn’t

surprised this year to see another mouse,

already in rigor mortis, forepaws together

as if in prayer; exhaustion showing on its

face, as if flung from a far universe

and the intensity of a cat’s playful tease.

So now, with notebook and pen, I’m writing

sorry notes to all the dead mice whose souls

must have lifted up that day from their small

graveyard of parsley, basil or mint. And a

final “sorry” to the latest offering, its tiny

grey coat pasted on terracotta; held there for

the author’s pen to record, either from pity or

sympathy, one word the mouse would never hear.

Helen Hagemann

Milkshake Man by John Williams

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MILKSHAKE MAN

 

I am an extraordinary dairy man,

I really give that milk a shake,

I whir it on my mixer,

I think you should partake.

 

I have such scrumptious flavours,

I’ll put a dob of ice-cream in,

Your taste buds will go ballistic,

Just after you begin.

 

There you go, drink it up,

Well, what do you think of that?

I think it tastes so very nice,

But will it make me fat?

John Williams

In or Out? by Nadine Cranenburgh

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In or Out?

 (Can be sung to the tune of ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low?’)

 

Is your belly button in, like a dimple in your skin?

Can you pull it down to frown? Can you pull it up to grin?

When you stretch your tummy tight, does it disappear from sight?

 

Is your belly button in?

 

Is your belly button out? Can you wiggle it about?

When you roll your tummy down, is it like a puppy’s snout?

If you poke it right in, then, does it pop straight out again?

 

Is your belly button out or in?

Nadine Cranenburgh 

Questions About Wasps by Helen Hagemann

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Questions about Wasps

Each morning, a wasp starts out as a lone traveller
heading into the garden, its hind legs dangling and
trailing in the wind. These moments are an eloquent

gesture of nature, the wasp on a journey into nectar,
jazzing up noisy wings, talkative as the bumble bee
already in the Fuchsia. There are many questions you

might want to ask, yet the only one you do know is
that wasps sting, especially late summer if you have
a fly swat or rolled newspaper in your hand.

Yet you’re curious about this eager garden traveller, like
a fly-in miner, flying out. Is he copying the tiger with
all those stripes on his back? Is he the bee’s rival, as he

hovers in mimicry? Is it to camouflage pincers in wax flowers
or to fool the bumble bee into thinking he is one of him?
And why does this busy wasp follow from petal to stamen

and stamen again, and not the other way around? What about
his paper-mache home, is that in the roof? Is he building
a colony of one hundred wasps, damaging the beams?

You guess that wasps are designed to make you think. So,
wondering about that loud buzzing noise as he backs out of
a bud, is he imitating the operatic bee who comes out singing?

Helen Hagemann

Evening in Berkeley by Anne Bell

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EVENING IN BERKELEY

Late sunlight tight-ropes across roof-tops

and maple trees finger a no-colour sky,

searching for not-yet stars;

on the side-walks

ginkos let fall their memories of summer

for the wind to riffle through,

and the scent of pancakes and coffee and chilli con carne

comes hurrying down the street.

Somewhere, out of sight,

a saxophone stands on tip-toe for a note  –

and the thought of tomorrow sings in my heart.

Anne Bell

A version of this poem was first published in “The Voice” (NSW Speech and Drama Assoc.)