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

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

The School Concert by James Aitchison

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Just imagine if this was where

your school concert took place!

With lots of gold everywhere,

you’d be in a magic space.

Picture yourself up on the stage —

what would you dance or sing?

With mums and dads in every box,

the applause would really ring.

Photo of Teatro de Fenice (Venice Opera house) Italy, by Ginette Pestana

Striped Mystery by Meryl Brown Tobin

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(written in the style of a Sestina)

It no longer exists, the thylacine,
though dog-like creature calls,
stripes flick through bush.
Tracking wallaby by scent,
tail extended behind,
the animal is rarely seen.

Overlooking lightly-wooded scene,
rounded ears pricked, is it a thylacine?
Struck by its kangaroo behind,
many rush to phones, make calls.
Yet few rangers are sent
to check sightings in the bush.

Walkers hike in lonely bush,
dangers not often seen.
But is smell of musk scent
a sign of the thylacine?
Researchers follow up calls,
hoping to sight a striped behind

If they come up behind
a strange wolf in the bush
giving coughing barks or yipping calls,
is it an illusion they’ve seen,
because extinct is the thylacine?
Still they cannot let go of the scent.

Tasmanian trappers noted musk scent
when they followed behind
extended heel tracks of a thylacine.
Where’s proof it exists in the bush?
Do hundreds mistake what they’ve seen?
When others laugh, few make calls.

ARFRA* records all calls,
hurries to chase up a scent,
wants hard proof of what’s been seen.
One day they hope to sneak up behind
the strange creature frequenting the bush
to identify without doubt the thylacine.

In time, with calls, a brown striped behind,
peculiar scent in the bush,
proof will be seen of the extinct thylacine.

Image from Digital Classroom.
Note: *Australian Rare Fauna Research Association, website
https://www.facebook.com/AUSRFRA/.
A sestina consists of six stanzas, of six lines each, and a
concluding tercet. The end word of each line of the first stanza is
repeated in succeeding stanzas and tercet in a strict order.

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

How Cold Is Cold? by James Aitchison

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It’s when the snow is all around,

and leaves slide silent to the ground.

It’s when the river turns to ice

and skating on it might be nice.

It’s when the soup is brimming warm

and outside stays the storm.

It’s when the birds cease their choir

and your feet are by the fire.  

Photo in Bavaria, Germany, by Ginette Pestana

The Dawn Service by James Aitchison

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A bugle in the frosty dawn,
each note hanging in the air,
then falling into silence
like the guns did, over there.

A voice recites a poem,
the vast crowd standing hushed;
every head is bowed,
every soul is touched.

Soon the men will march,
their memories aflame,
their banners held aloft,
each battle has a name.

And we who watch will know
that what we have was born
in blood and sacrifice,
on that first grim Anzac morn.

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay