Fishing woes
I felt such delight
with the tug of its bite
and its fight till the end to be free.
But now that my fish
has been served on a dish
I just wish it were back in the sea.
Jenny Erlanger
Category Archives: Australian children’s poetry
Not Out by N. McMullin
Leave a commentNot Out
Facing.
The Bowler,
Streaks in.
Long limbed,
Powerful.
With intent, he glares at me.
Sweating.
Under my helmet.
I tap my bat.
Raised.
Ready.
Fixated on the Bowler’s hand.
An Umpire,
Yawns behind,
Darkened sunglasses.
Bored. Daydreaming.
A seagull cries
From the boundary.
The red ball,
Careers down.
An inside edge.
Caught by the Keeper.
They call for it.
HOWZAT!
The Umpire.
Stands motionless.
I feign innocence.
He hasn’t heard it.
No finger is raised.
And I silently thank the seagull.
N McMullin
No School Today by Jill McDougall
Leave a commentNo School Today
Don’t make me go to school today,
Please! Anything but that!
I’ll tidy up my bedroom,
I’ll be gentle with the cat…
I’ll do the dishes for a week,
(I’ll soak the saucepans too),
But please don’t make me go to school –
That place is like a zoo.
The kids are really mean to me,
They call me nasty names
Like ‘legend in a lunch box’ when
I interrupt their games.
And when they see me coming,
They spread out like peanut paste,
I feel like I’m some fungal growth,
Some noxious toxic waste.
So please don’t make me go to school,
I’ll sulk and whine and sob,
So WHAT if I’m the Principal!
I want a different job!
Jill McDougall
The Lighthouse by Neridah McMullin
Leave a commentThe Lighthouse
She stands tall,
Faithful,
Stoic and true.
White-washed,
And unwavering.
Carved basalt steps,
A salt encrusted,
Red door,
With a rusty lock.
Up curved, spiral stairs,
A French Fresnal,
Lens flashes,
Guiding ships,
Away from rocks,
And rips.
Bitter maelstrom,
Blustering galeforce.
To the Lighthouse!
The Lighthouse –
If only you knew,
You saved me
And my crew.
Neridah McMullin
Crusader Beetle by Helen Hagemann
Leave a commentCrusader Beetle
She is not the Japanese beetle
who devastates rows of basil plants;
that brown and black fellow chomping
circles in your garden spaghetti herbs.
She is not elongated, black and lemon-tipped
like Soldier beetle who swarms in number
spring and summer; gardeners anxious they’re
plaguing Melbourne. Crusader beetle is not
bejeweled in topaz, emerald or sapphire
like Jewel beetle. Nor is she the roller
of poop like Dung beetle, ready to squeeze
her offspring inside (like famous Alexander
Beetle’s matchbox) reducing methane as she
dillies away on a cow pat in less than twenty-four
hours. No! Crusader beetle is neither of these,
but a “Joan of Arc” carrying her bannered symbol
on a bluish back. A cross in clear salute, as if
she is proud of her history, out there warring
against predators, her pink and grey feelers
tapping out miles travelled between home and
Acacia bloom, wing-pads blazoned with that
repellent X, proliferating Indonesia, the Indo-
Pacific, or at home, her hind femur and inner
teeth ready to slay Australia’s backyard weeds.
Helen Hagemann
I Want to go to School by Ron Barton
Leave a commentI Want to go to School
A big girl of four and a young boy of two
were walking with their mum and dad through the zoo.
To see all the animals made both children smile
but it also made them tired so they stopped for a while.
They snacked on some treats that mum made before
when dad pointed out something that he saw:
a group of fish swimming around in a pool.
“Did you know,” the dad said, “that they call that a school.”
“I’ll go to school soon,” said little Miss Four.
“Me too,” said the boy – it was hard to ignore.
It was clear to the parents that their little boy
would miss his big sister. It gave them no joy.
And so they decided, that they must set things straight
before it got out of hand, before it was too late.
“Not yet,” said the dad. “It’s just not your turn,
you’re not old enough to go to school and learn.”
“The boy started crying, he just didn’t get
that he wasn’t quite ready to go to school yet.
He was a ‘big boy’, a baby no more –
why couldn’t he go to school with Miss Four?
“It’s ok, son,” said the mum. “Dry your tears,
you won’t go to school for a couple more years.
There’s a number of things you must learn before
you can go to school with little Miss Four.”
“That’s right,” said the dad. “I can think of some.
Like, you must no longer wear a nappy on your bum.
And while you know your whole alphabet
There are other things that you need to learn yet.”
“Just think,” added mum, “about how well you count
but you only know up to a certain amount.
You can do up to ten but little Miss Four
can count to 100 and sometimes even more.”
The tears had dried up, a change had occurred.
The young boy was now hanging on every word.
“And plus,” said the mum, “it isn’t all bad,
you’ll get to stay with me without Miss Four and Dad.”
“Just think of all of the games that we’ll play
and the fun things we’ll do when it’s just us all day.
We’ll get to bake cookies and sing songs and draw,
then we’ll walk up to the school to pick up Miss Four.”
“Ok,” said the boy and he started to grin
but Miss Four had been listening and she wanted in.
“That’s not fair,” she said. “I want to stay home.”
Then Mum and Dad let out a collective groan.
It didn’t seem like they could win either way
and so they left this fight for another day.
Ron Barton
My Brain is Full by Allan Cropper
Leave a commentMY BRAIN IS FULL
‘I’ve examined you quite thoroughly,’
Is what my doctor said.
‘It seems there’s too much empty space
existing in your head.’
‘The vast expanse between your ears
Is that which makes you ill.
It’s far too great a cavity
for your small brain to fill.
You need to go expand your mind,
to fill the empty void,
if rattling noise inside your head
you’re wishing to avoid.’
So I went to the library
and took out lots of books.
Reading lots of stories is
much harder than it looks.
I read and read and read and read
each day, right after school.
I read and read and read and read
until my brain was full.
I read stories about pirates,
I read stories about sport.
I read stories about heroes
and the battles that they fought.
I read stories of adventurers
in the jungles dark and green,
stories of explorers finding
lands no one had seen.
I read fiction books, non-fiction books,
and reference books as well.
And very soon I noticed
that my brain began to swell.
I fear I overfilled my brain
‘Cause it just grows and grows,
and now my poor expanding brain
Leaks out my ears and nose.
So doctor can you tell me how
to keep my brain in check?
My brain keeps oozing out my head
and down my face and neck.
If my brain keeps on expanding
I’m afraid my skull will crack
Quite frankly, Doc, I’d rather have
That awful rattle back.
Allan Cropper
Bird Bomb by Jenny Erlanger
Leave a commentBird Bomb
From morning to evening its scream can be heard,
a warning to all from this dive-bombing bird.
My brother’s too frightened to venture outdoors.
He’s already suffered a scratch from its claws
and Dad has to run from the house to the shed
his arms waving stupidly over his head.
It happens the moment we step out of place,
that flurry of feathers, that beak in the face.
So, hurry up babies and fly from your nest.
Your mother’s becoming a serial pest.
Jenny Erlanger
Old Fred and Kazinsky by Mike Lucas
Leave a commentOld Fred and Kazinsky
Old Fred never knew where Kazinsky went to every night when he opened the door.
That cat would run free and he’d sprint up the tree to the roof, then away to explore.
He’d hear a faint howl and then sometimes a growl and then nothing until the next day
When Kazinsky returned, but Old Fred never learned where he went till he looked far away.
Now Old Fred had no job (he was old), but a hobby he had was to gaze at the stars
And the planets and moon (with its seas and its dunes). He would spend all night gazing afar.
One night as he gazed out his window and raised his old telescope up to a crater
He had to look twice when he saw several mice running round with a mouse sized cheese grater.
‘Mice on the moon!’ shouted Fred in a swoon. ‘Mice on the moon! It can’t be!’
It can’t be moon mice! It can’t be, I say twice. But I see moon mice! That’s what I see!’
He rubbed at his eyes, looked again at the skies, at the moon, at the…what on Earth’s that?
Then out from a dune on the moon mice’s moon sprang a moon…m…m…moon c…c…cat!
‘Kazinsky!’ yelled Fred, as the moon mice all fled, leaving clouds of cheese dust in their wake.
‘Kazinsky!’ yelled Fred. ‘It’s Kazinky!’ yelled Fred. ‘It’s Kazinsky and make no mistake!’
In and out the moon’s holes, up and down the moon’s knolls, the wee moon mice ran eeking and squeaking.
They poked out their tongues and they wobbled their bums while Kazinsky chased after them, shrieking.
At times the moon wobbled while moon mice were gobbled and moon cheese flew this way and that.
Some leapt for the stars, but they didn’t get far for Kazinsky the cat chased them back.
At one point there landed a spaceship commanded by aliens from far away,
And Kazinsky sold mice to them for twice the price of what Earthlings would normally pay.
This madness went on more than half the night long as the moon swam away from the east.
And let it be said that the cat of Old Fred had a handsome and heavenly feast.
As the sun started rising on the eastern horizon the moon met the Earth in the west,
And Kazinsky stepped down to the new morning’s ground to prowl home for a well deserved rest.
Kazinsky arrived at just gone half past five as Old Fred nodded off where he sat.
Through the window he crept as Old Fred soundly slept, dreaming dreams of an astronaut cat.
He strolled to the chair and at Fred sleeping there and he settled down onto his lap,
And Kazinsky the cat and Old Fred, just like that, spent the whole day enjoying a nap.
Mike Lucas
Brown Honeyeaters by Helen Hagemann
Leave a commentBrown Honeyeaters
A brilliant blue rising from a bronze morning
and Brown Honeyeaters are circling the garden.
Today, they are in the olive tree in my neighbour’s
yard, performing aerial songs (although it’s more a short
sharp, tweep!). Before spring, I counted two regular
visitors to our horticulture of Canna lilies, Yellow
Bird-of-Paradise, Grevillea, Frangipani, now there are
four! As if in concert, they dance, plunging to and fro.
It’s balletic, reminding you of Rudolf Nureyev and Dame
Margot Fontein in Romeo and Juliet. One of the
fledgelings is as graceful as Maria Kochetkova, a
Giselle fluttering her wings, thin as the veil of a tutu.
There’s fussing from parents, followed by a preen on
brick wall and hedge, a bird commotion of tutelage.
The best is their closeness, high in the branches, and now
that the young are fed and sleepy, the show has stopped.
Helen Hagemann