Springing to Action by Celia Berrell

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Springing To Action

 

Sprr-r-r-ring is such an active word.

You can hear it gathering-up its force.

Ready to burst out a kind of ping.

Releasing its energy on a course.

 

It’s the name we give to the season when

all living things gear-up to abound.

We use it to label a water source

that’s pushing its way through the spongy ground.

 

It’s also the name we give a device

that bends and moves but will not crack.

It’s often metallic and flexible.

If it’s pushed or pulled it does the same back.

 

A spring isn’t always a coiled-up wire.

It could be a curve or a V-shaped bend.

Like a bow that shoots arrows through the air.

Or a pair of tweezers with open ends.

 

A spring can be made from a plastic mould.

A blister, a mound or a curvy dome.

They’re hidden in keyboards for typing things.

And once were used on an old mobile phone.

 

A pen you can click. A used paperclip.

A clock that goes tick. A peg that can grip.

A doorknob that twists. A bike-bell that rings.

It’s likely they’ve all got some kind of sprr-r-r-ring!

Celia Berrell

Celia said: Many Australians seem to have an easy-going approach to life.  Is this reflected in the way we say words like “spring”?  Other cultures and languages speak in a more animated way than us.  Can you “roll your r’s” like the Italian and Spanish people do?  Or gargle your “r’s” like the French?  How do you make the word “spring” really spring?

My Being by Robyn Youl

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MY

Being.

Blossoming Blooming

Balanced Bedazzling Ball-of-Fire

Being Befriended, Beloved By

ME

Robyn Youl

 Robyn said: Nearly a Diamante! Every child is a diamond. Some need love to polish those prisms so they can shine. Poetry in kids’ prisons would help! What a marvelous thing for kids to do – create positive poems about themselves using this pattern!

 

Fields in Flood by Alys Jackson

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Fields in Flood

For weeks now the wind has been keening,

cascading its tears into creeks

sobbing small streams into torrents,

the torrents now springing small leaks.

 

Around us the rivers are rising,

wet-fisted they break sodden banks,

huddling the sheep in their paddocks,

drowning the grass round their shanks.

 

Floodwaters bury the highway

choking the freight and the fields

and pelicans thunder the sky-way,

casting their rods and their reels.

Alys Jackson

Alys said: I wrote this poem after visiting NSW recently and hearing about the devastating floods that cut off the Newell Highway. The farmer I spoke to told me that hundreds of pelicans appeared from nowhere to feed on the fish in the floodwaters.

An Album of Yesterdays by Celia Berrell

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An Album of Yesterdays

I caught a piece of yesterday

to share with you today.

It’s clinging to a memory

of how we laugh and play.

 

I know that piece of yesterday

will never go astray.

It’s squashed inside a heavy book.

That’s where it’s going to stay.

 

Tomorrow, when I’m old and grey

I’ll still remember yesterday

and how we used to play and laugh.

Because … I have our photograph!

Celia Berrell

Celia said: Personal pictures and photos have an almost magical connection with our memories and emotions.  And some become more precious as the Yesterdays slip by!  Do you treasure your analogue or digital album of Yesterdays?

Yesterday Today by Jeanie Axton

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Yesterday we had bacon and eggs for breakfast

Today was Coco Pops

Yesterday we had an apple for morning tea

Today was fairy floss

Yesterday we had pumpkin soup for lunch

Today was hot chips

Yesterday we had Greek yogurt for an afternoon snack

Today was a Mars Bar

Yesterday we had a roast chicken dinner with veggies

Today was a Happy Meal from McDonald’s

Yesterday we had homemade apple pie for dessert

Today was a chocolate donut

Yesterday we watched the footy with carrot sticks and dip

Today we watched with a big bucket of popcorn

Yesterday my mum was home all day

Today my dad was in charge of food

I wonder what we will eat tomorrow?

 Jeanie Axton 

Kookaburras by Bridh Hancock

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KOOKABURRAS

 

Dacelo novaeguineae

 

Ho, koo-koo-kaa-kaa,

Kookaburras,

Laughing in your trees;

No jumbuck jollier,

Gladly I’d follow yu’,

Life was meant to please.

 

Can you whistle?

Oh but this’ll

Do, for laughter’s sweet

And you could,

If you but stood

Your terribly ticklish feet.

 

Tiring is this

Wing-flap business,

But you need to fly;

For ticklish feet

Sure has you beat,

But what a way to die!

 

Bridh Hancock

Meander by James Aitchison

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MEANDER

A sleepwalker named Alexander

Left his bed so he could meander.

Eyes closed and snoring,

Arms out before him,

He ended up on the verandah.

 

But fate had in store a cruel twist

For this poor lonely somnambulist.

The next thing he knew

There was doggy-doo,

And his feet landed right in its midst!

 

So in future, my friend Alexander,

Take heed of a humble bystander:

Please stay in your bed,

Sheets over your head,

And don’t try to sleep’ly meander.

James Aitchison