Fire, Fire.
It’s getting hot,
The sun is out,
Wind is blowing,
There’s smoke about.
Temperature’s high,
Warnings given,
Firemen out,
By fires are driven.
Communities gathered,
In support of all,
Souls are united,
To cushion a fall.
Let us pray,
That all is well,
And we can return,
No tragic story to tell.
Remembrance Day,
Ever in our hearts,
Minute of silence observed,
Every year at the eleventh hour, day and month,
Marking respect and gratitude,
Being reverent to those
Returned soldiers,
And those who lost their lives.
Never forgetting their sacrifice,
Commemorating their achievements,
Embracing a universal loss.
Defending home and country,
And human rights and more,
Yet always striving for peace, not war.
Grandpa Joe had been to war,
Many years ago,
And he shared many stories,
With his grandson Billy Joe.
He told him of the friends he’d made,
Whilst serving in the war,
Of how they’d fought and survived,
And loved life even more.
He spoke of bombs and weapons,
Of trenches and terrain,
Of aeroplanes that flew so low,
That the noise drove him insane.
Of many nights that knew no sleep,
Of many days which saw no relief,
He spoke of devastation,
And of God and his belief.
He spoke of the heat, during the day,
And of the bitter cold at night,
Of always feeling hungry,
And to this no end in sight.
Of fighting shrubs and narrow paths,
Of mosquitoes high and low,
Of crawling on his belly,
To strike another blow.
He remembered the weight of his rifle,
As he carried it close to his chest,
Of shots that were constantly ringing,
As they pushed forward, getting no rest.
He spoke of the wounded and dying,
Of the sadness and loss that he felt,
Of the fear and adrenalin pumping,
And of the air and how it had smelt.
Billy Joe listened intently,
To what he had to say,
And thought his grandpa was the best,
In each and every way.
Toni Newell
I sneaked into a toy store,
And hid in a cubby house,
There I waited patiently,
As quiet as a mouse.
Finally the lights went off,
I heard the back door slam,
I crept out of the cubby house,
And now, here I am.
I look around the many shelves,
And see a teddy bear,
He opens his eyes slowly,
They look at me and stare.
I move a little closer,
And he holds out a paw,
I put my hand out in return,
And shake his paw of straw.
Then I see Donald Duck,
He’s quacking, on the floor,
Waking up the other toys,
Which were all asleep before.
There is quite a commotion,
As Thomas blows his whistle,
Barbie struts her fashion,
The goat tries to eat the thistle.
Then lego pieces start to move,
And form a winding bridge,
Hermit and me with others,
Cross to find a quaint village.
There we come upon an elf,
Who’s dressed in green and dancing,
We all join in, holding hands,
All singing and laughing.
Now the bear starts to perform,
Then ‘Superman’ flies in,
He tries to keep us all in order,
Whilst the games finally begin.
All the animals on the farm,
Are now roaming free,
The cows and pigs and sheep and more,
Have this pent-up energy.
They start to run around the shop,
Making lots and lots of noise,
Running into the furniture,
And many other toys.
They run until exhausted,
When finally they stop,
Allowing me to hug them,
And pat their furry top.
All at once I feel I’m moving,
How can it possibly be?
I hear a voice which won’t stop calling,
I’ve been dreaming; my mum’s calling me.
Toni Newell
Teacher Notes by Jeanie Axton
Watch the film clip below on “100 Years of Toys”
Creating Poetry
Some wear their heart on their sleeve,
Whilst others invest in words,
Sometimes in the form of poetry,
Allowing themselves to be heard.
Taking the opportunity,
To sift through muddled thoughts,
Seeking a type of clarity,
Words on a page that are caught.
Then harnessing the words,
Forming some sort of order,
Making sense of them all,
Before gluing them together.
And, when it is finished,
Words cast in cement,
Sentiment and message delivered,
Produce a passage that’s relevant.
Writing
Writing represents to me
Reflections on paper,
Inspirations shared,
Tremendous satisfaction,
Intersecting thoughts,
Noting concepts with order,
Giving form to random ideas.
Our Council gives us three bins,
Each has a special calling,
The red top is for general waste,
And the yellow for recycling.
And then we have the green bin,
That recycles plants and trees,
Egg shells and food scraps,
Organic waste and leaves.
The green bin is my favourite,
Because it’s nature’s gold,
Mulched and used as compost,
Its benefits unfold.
In the fortnight that it’s waiting,
For collection to take place,
In warmer months the process starts,
At a faster pace.
Lift the lid and feel and smell,
The heat as it meets the air,
And you will know that your green waste,
Won’t be going to waste elsewhere.
It started out as a seed,
And slowly put down roots.
Then struggled to reach the top,
By sending up a shoot.
It pushed its head above the ground,
And then it grew more leaves,
Produced a lot of flowers,
Which attracted many bees.
It grew to become a plant,
Bearing fruit which housed the seeds,
And thus, the cycle continues,
But what precedes?
Did the seed come before the plant?
Or the plant before the seed?
It’s a question that’s been asked before,
And will be asked again, indeed.
Exhilarating Spring
Daffodils and jonquils,
Herald in the Spring,
Wattle trees in flower,
Fruit trees blossoming.
Birds begin to build their nests,
Weather’s getting warmer,
The farmer sows his seeds,
And the days slowly get longer.
Dormant plants begin to grow,
Snakes, come out of hibernation,
The winter blues are shaken off,
It’s pure exhilaration.
