All the day long, the bluebird sings,
High in the trees, high on the wing.
All the day long, the red cow eats,
Moos and eats, moos and eats.
All the night long, the blue dog howls,
Keeps up the neighbours with his sad yowls.
All the night long, the red fox prowls,
Watch out you farmers, lock up your fowls!
Sophie Masson
Too hot to sleep, kick off sheet,
tiptoe downstairs
and out into the cool night air.
Earth’s night light so still and round,
resting in a blanket of stars.
A creaking board,
movement,
a hug,
Mum’s out here too.
Kaye Baillie
The party was great.
I’ve got so much to tell
but I can’t do it now,
I’m not feeling too well.
I don’t want to chuck
but I know that I will.
Is it something I ate
that is making me ill?
The frankfurts and sauce
can’t have made me feel bad.
The ten that I ate
were the best that I’ve had.
And it wasn’t the chips
that I had as a snack
as we all raced around
on the dodgem car track.
It might have been what
I was drinking instead,
that bottle of stuff
that was fizzy and red
that I drank when my mouth
was all dried up inside
after screaming so much
on the Gravitron ride.
Or could it have been
what I had as a treat,
something I’ve wanted
forever to eat,
that mountain of fairy floss
stuck to a stick?
Quick, pass me the bucket,
I’m going to be sick.
Jenny Erlanger
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
When dear Uncle Wally slips off his shoes
Warnings go out on the six o’clock news
The smell is so bad that you might like to choose…
To sneak out and just run away.
When dear Uncle Wally takes off his socks
It sets off alarm bells and stops all the clocks
They ought to be burned or else locked in a box
And then taken far far away.
When dear Uncle Wally wriggles his toes
You can see as the fungal bacteria grows
Does he wash his toes? I guess nobody knows
I pray that he’ll wash them today.
When dear Uncle Wally rubs at his feet
The smell it emits is like old rotting meat
The air freshener spray can hardly compete
With that sweaty foot odour bouquet.
Pooh!!!
Allan Cropper
Not as lucky as a Las Vegas dollar
nor as silver,
but if you look inside panelled rooms
there may be several silverfish
touring endlessly in the house of a miser
or in one of those 19th century cottages
where the rain soaks North Somerset,
bookshelves covered in trench coats.
You know that silverfish chew into glue,
plaster, paint, photos, sugar, coffee,
hair, carpet, clothing, dandruff,
book bindings and paper (and that’s
a lot to get through in a week!)
Imagine one slippery silverfish
in a musty library of a French poet
travelling through paragraphs of Reverdy,
John Donne, Simone De Beauvoir or Sartre,
his hunger moving toward simile and speech,
words curling into little white ropes
and lifting from the page,
one letter at a time.
Helen Hagemann
I’ve taken our rubbish bins out to the street.
I’ve helped wash and vacuum the car.
My bedroom is finally looking as neat
as all of the other rooms are.
I’ve weeded the garden, the front and the back.
I’ve cut up the veggies for tea.
I’ve dried all the dishes Mum left in the rack
and now I’m as tired as can be.
I’ve brought in the clothes ’cause it’s going to rain,
I think I deserve a reward.
I made a mistake when I chose to complain
of feeling so terribly bored!
Jenny Erlanger
Giants are we that see
those little mites
of black and legs
following their tales
of trails
carrying to nest
their loads at least
the weight of three
but a mere grain
to you and me
Myra King
Kale is not a thing of beauty
matt deep green leaves
as dark as night
their underside a network
of wrinkled veins.
Washed
ready for the pot
but there is a surprise!
Glistening glass-like watery jewels
shine and shiver
trapped in membrane pockets
soon to be darkened leaves
again.
Kay Baillie
The wind whispered softly through grass and through gum.
She heard it call clearly, invitingly, “Come!”
Felt fingers of freshness caressing her face,
ruffling her fur with such gentle embrace.
The earth had a freshness that comes after rain
and she heard the wind calling, again and again:
“Come and run with me, seek freedom, take flight!”
Its call roused a longing to know such delight.
It whispered so softly, in murmur so low.
It beckoned her, “Come,” and she wanted to go.
To forage in green grass new-kissed by the rain,
to taste of its sweetness and know once again
how it feels to run freely with life unrestrained,
to run with the wind, by a fence uncontained.
She pricked up her ears, her body was tense.
Her heart filled with longing, she leaped at the fence.
The sweet taste of freedom was brief – incomplete –
for she soon heard the sound of hurrying feet.
Familiar voice calling, she paused in her flight,
heard gentle voice saying, “I know it’s not right.
But sorry, old girl, I can’t let you run free.
If you’re on the loose the ranger might see
And take you away. Then you’d no more know
even brief tastes of freedom – a walk every day.
It’s not much to offer, but home you must stay.”
Teena Raffa-Mulligan
You know
when you walk on a bush track at noon
the birds are hushed by heat
but down near your feet leaves rustle
and you smile to yourself
because another creature is near
it’s like that
You know
when you feel grumpy for days
nothing’s right and you don’t know why
then it shifts and fat drops of rain
kiss the dust on the pavement
the air is alive with possibilities
just before the water roars down
it’s like that
You know
when you get an ear worm
three or more words together
that tease you so much
you can’t get them out of your head
Sometimes it lasts for years
it’s like that
You know
when you ride barefoot in winter
and your feet slip off the pedals
and you stub your toes
the pain takes your breath away
it’s like that
You know
when your old best friend tells
their new best friend
your deepest, secret shame
and now everyone knows
Then, a universe away,
the cold coal of rage
becomes a diamond rhyme
it’s like that
You know
when you wake up from a dream
so luminous you rush to catch it
and though it slips through your net of words
the moth dust left behind on the mesh
glows softly for years to come
it’s like that
You know it’s like that
You know it’s like that
You know it’s like that
don’t you?
Liana Joy Christensen
(Originally published in the US by Cicada, Vol 14, no 3, 2011 and later republished in Fremantle Press Performance Poets, 2013)
