It’s too hot to play,
So I snooze in the shade.
Lazing in the cool
of a massive fig tree.
Nature’s air conditioning.
It’s too hot to play,
So I dive in the salty sea.
Waves tickle me,
refreshing my body.
Nature’s swimming pool.
It’s too hot to play,
So I sit in a sudden breeze.
Cooling my sticky body,
blowing my hair.
Nature’s fan.
It’s too hot to play,
So I eat a fat watermelon.
Refreshing my dry mouth
trickling on my face.
Nature’s most refreshing treat.
I’ll tell you the trouble with bubbles:
They burst like a punctured balloon
As they fall on a sharp piece of rubble,
Or they fail on their flight to the moon.
It’s useless to try to collect them.
They’re not like a coin or a stamp.
For the hand that you raise to protect them
You’ll soon find is feeling quite damp.
Yet bubbles, you’d better believe it,
Can actually be lots of fun.
You can catch them and snatch them
And quickly despatch them
Until you have burst every one.
You can chase them all over your garden.
You can watch them drift over a wall.
Though you run like a hare,
As they’re mostly just air,
When you search you’ll find nothing at all!
Just out the window seems to be
a better place for you and me.
There’s sunshine there
and giant slides …
and if you’ve brave
there’s dragon rides!
There’s trees to climb
that scrape the moon,
and monsters dance
in the lagoon,
and Bigfoots bounce
on trampolines,
and tigers sneak up
unforeseen
and strike like lightning
at their prey –
then lick them ’till
they’re licked away!
If only classrooms had lagoons
on sleepy Monday afternoons.
I’ll soon be walking through that door,
I’ve waited all these years.
But nothing’s quite prepared me for
this sudden flood of tears.
I know that I will be OK,
I’ll take whatever comes,
as soon as I can get away
from all these weeping mums!
First published in “Hopscotch” (Jellibeanz Publications, 2011)
Morning comes in through my window
making shadows on my wall
I can see the roses waving
I can hear the magpies call
In the street the dogs are barking
busy people start their day
I stay wrapped within my doona
till it’s time for me to play
Morning comes in through my window
beams of sunlight make me smile
Mummy’s calling me to breakfast
‘In a while, Mum. In a while’
Then I smell the crispy bacon,
maple syrup, pancakes, more.
Morning comes in through my window,
I go racing out the door.
June said: I liked that the photograph prompt had creatures on it and it inspired me to think of what it must be like for a caterpillar to change its mode of transport when it transforms. I placed this poem over a photograph of a butterfly. I wanted something about the right length so the photograph and words could balance. It is fun making poem/photograph creations. For playfulness I spelt the word travel out at the end of each line.
I took this photograph at the Botanical Gardens.
As for the last line, my teenage son recently was studying a Dylan Thomas poem so I thought it would be fun to echo some of the lines.
‘Do not go gently into that good night.’
Inside the pocket of my shorts it’s dark and not too clean,
But you might just decipher the colours red and green.
There’s a length of string that’s red or faded nearly pink
A piece of a tangelo skin that’s sweeter than you think
A dandelion head there is, that’s rather sad and squashed
A blade of grass that’s all green now but changes when it’s washed
A toffee wrapper, blue as blue, that’s sticky-d up the dark
As well a stone of purplish-grey I found when in the park.
Rainbow colours but oh no, not the rainbow with its glow
Far too dirty, far too dank, it all needs cleaning to be frank.
Hard edges, cooling to the touch. I take it out and rub it clean
Angled just right toward the sun, its transparency is seen
In coloured bands breaks up the light,
and then stream through the colours bright
A wondrous pleasure to bestow
the prism bears its own rainbow
I remember the race,
and the confident hare.
I remember the win.
But I really don’t care
for the moral that’s drawn from
that one-off affair.
The hare could have won
and if truth be told,
races are meant
for the fast and the bold.
But the rat race, the human race-
both leave me cold.
For racers don’t see
what is perfectly plain
to the slow and the steady –
all the living you gain
going at my pace
in the slow lane.
Kate said: I initially planned to have the tortoise address the bird, but the poem had other plans. I remember as a child being annoyed by the way generalised moral pronouncements could be extracted from specific “one-off” anecdotes. This fable was a case in point. That idea took over. Sorry bird. Maybe next time.
Hello dear Goose, it’s time for tea
So please come over and sit with me
I have some cakes and a sticky bun
I think that we shall have some fun
Buster goat has brought some bread
And although he carried it on his head
With strawberry jam and Vegemite
I’m sure that it will taste alright
Thank you Duck, it does look sweet
I’m glad he didn’t use his feet!
Oh look dear Goose, the Man in the Moon
Do you think that we can go there soon?
Of course Duck dear, we both shall fly
Out of the night, into the sky
Just close your eyes and rest your head
And tuck your feet up in the bed
For when you dream the moon you’ll see
And the Man within shall give you tea!
Oh look dear Goose, it is the sun
Is he smiling down on everyone?
Or is his radiance just for me
For I am a good little duck you see?
Of course Duck dear, he shines for you
And all the other creatures too
He gives us light and makes us warm
And dries us out after a storm
Oh dear Goose, how very clever
I hope the sun shall shine forever!
