Tag Archives: James Aitchison

A Cinquain for a Train by James Aitchison

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railcars

silvery sleek

rattling, clicking, clacking

my very special adventure

outback

The Savannahlander train crossing a creek, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Teacher’s note: A cinquain is an unrhymed five-line poem that has a 2-4-6-8-2 syllable count.
Line 1: a one-word noun (the subject of the poem)
Line 2: two adjectives that describe Line 1
Line 3: a three-word verbal phrase that further describes Line 1
Line 4: a four-word phrase that shows a feeling toward Line 1
Line: a one-word noun synonymous with or related to Line 1
Writing cinquains is great fun for students.
(Note: “special” is a two-syllable word!)

Hop Right In! by James Aitchison

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(In Honour of National Bathtub Day October 7th)

In days of old,

out in the cold,

this is where you’d wash.

Rub-a-dub-dub,

in a public tub,

oh my golly gosh!

Hop right in,

up to your chin,

give your skin a sheen.

And let’s all hope

there’s enough soap

so everyone is clean.

Think of the queue

following you,

eager to get in too.

So don’t delay —

scrub right away —

I’m the one after you!

Street bath, Europe. Photo by Ginette Pestana

All Aboard? No Thanks! by James Aitchison

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Stop the train,

I want to get off —

that bridge looks a disaster!

It happened when

they had a flood

and the river ran much faster.

It twisted the rails,

it bent the bridge —

any train would roll and sway.

So until it’s fixed,

until it’s safe,

no more trains will pass this way! 

Rail bridge at Einasleigh, Gulf Country, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Cheating A Crocodile by James Aitchison

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First I saw bubbles —

just two or three —

breaking the surface

of the water near me.

And then into view

came the beast’s ugly snout —

“Crocodile!  Crocodile!”

the world heard me shout.

I ran up the bank

as it clambered ashore

and sat in the sun

where I’d been before.

When it opened its jaws,

I had a strong hunch —

if I hadn’t moved quickly,

I would have been lunch!

Freshwater crocodile, Cobbold Gorge, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Where’s My House by James Aitchison

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Every spring I lose my house —

it likes to disappear —

behind the flowers and bushes

that grow so fast round here.

No more bare old branches,

no more empty beds;

there’s greenery and colour

that everywhere turns heads.

Spring wakes up my garden,

puts magic in the air,

along with different scents

a-drifting here and there.

Springtime at an old miner’s cottage, Creswick, Victoria. Photo by Ginette Pestana

A Tale of Old Miners by James Aitchison

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I wonder who lived here,

I wonder where they went?

Did they make a living,

or were their hopes all spent?

Did they dream of copper,

digging riches from the ground?

They haven’t been forgotten 

for there’s history all around.

Perhaps at night their ghosts

still venture out to roam,

stepping lightly through the gloom

to once again come home.

The old Williams cottage, Blinman, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Hello, Daphne! by James Aitchison

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Hello, Daphne, by the fence,

aren’t your flowers full of scents!

You’ve been asleep all winter long,

now you’re blooming sweet and strong.

You spice the breeze and fill the air,

your flowers white, your fragrance rare.

The moment all your blooms appear,

you tell me that spring is here.

Photo credit Ginette Pestana

Sailing By by James Aitchison

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On the dreamy river,

drifting with the tide,

past old shutter’d houses

where history lives inside.

Breezes tease the palms,

stir a lazy frond or two,

and in the milky sky

the heat is shining through.

The Portuguese and Dutch,

the British all were here;

five hundred years of stories

like magic can appear.

An old kampong by the Melaka River, Malaysia. Photo by Ginette Pestana