Pigeons
They paddle with staccato feet In powder-pools of sunlight, Small blue busybodies 
Strutting like fat 
gentlemen With hands clasped Under their swallowtail coats; And, as they stump about, 
Their
heads like tiny hammers Tap at imaginary nails In non-existent walls. Elusive ghosts 
of sunshine 
Slither down the green gloss Of their necks an instant, and are gone.
Summer hangs drugged from sky to earth In limpid fathoms of silence: Only warm dark 
dimples of sound 
Slide like slow bubbles From the contented throats.
Raise a casual hand - With one quick gust They fountain into air.
RICHARD KELL

Storm in the Black Forest
Now it is almost night, from the bronzey soft sky Jugfull after jugfull of pure white 
liquid fire, 
bright white tipples over and spills down, and is gone and gold-bronze flutters beat 
through the thick
upper air. And as the electric liquid pours out, sometimes a still brighter white 
snake wriggles 
among it, spilled and tumbling wriggling down the sky: and then the heavens crackle 
with uncouth sounds.
D. H. LAWRENCE

Rain
Starlings fly in a freckled crowd, And garden firs that grow against walls Are ruffled 
up and blown 
like the soft down On a bird's throat.
And now in fields Trees darken with rain, Horses huddle by hedges, Tails tucked in 
russet haunches.
The sky has a bloom of cloud And a haze of rain falls On the hair and upturned faces 
Of men who delight in rain.
MARGARET STANLEY-WRENCH

POEMS BY NEW ZEALAND CHILDREN 
The World is at an End
 The world is at an end.
 The last people are saying goodbye
 Before the world is disintegrated
And goes into nothing. 
The charred trees stand alone, all alone.
As it gets hotter,
The sun sets for the last time
Its red glow over all the world.
BRETT BLACKFORD
Hermit
Old and gnarled 
Grey and ragged 
Thin and bony 
Private and secret Who knows, he may even be a phoney. 
Rather big ugly feet 
And very sick through not enough to eat, 
Creased and lined
And not too refined
That's what he was.
RICHARD GORDON Age 11  
Life
Floating around with endless wondering
Searching, searching,
Searching for what, searching for who?
Drifting toward what, toward who?
Why, why does it happen?
 Circling, circling,
 Circling for what, circling for who?
 On, on and on. No stop, no thoughts,
 just search and search.
RICHARD GORDON Age 11 
Anticipation
I lay behind the gorse 
Their prickles were poking me. I could hear the trickling of the stream, 
The rumbling of cars along the highway, The thumping of my heart As if it was trying 
to find love. 
I picked a fern leaf and examined it 
Dreamily. 
The hooting of an owl broke the solitude And the whole forest seemed alive. 
 BILLY CROMBIE Age 11 
A Small Old Miser
A small old miser
Who lives underground
Sits on a fallen rock, counting money.
Pulling it out from here and there
He adds it-three thousand dollars. Pulling out more he adds it again, Three thousand 
one dollars he has. A mean old miser, sitting.
Doesn't think of anyone but himself.
LORRAINE ALLEY Age 12

Song of the Rain
Night, And the yellow pleasure of candle-light Old brown books and the kind fine face 
of the clock Fogged in the veils
of the fire - its cuddling tock.
The cat, Greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat; Wickedly wakeful she yawns at the 
rain Bending the roses over
the pane, And a bird in my heart begins to sing Over and over the same sweet thing
Safe in the house with ivy boyhood's love, And our children asleep in the attic above.
HUGH MCRAE

How to Paint the Portrait of a Bird 
First paint a cage 
with an open door then paint 
something pretty something simple something fine something useful for the bird next 
place the canvas against a tree in a in a wood or in a forest hide behind a tree 
without speaking
without moving . . . 
Sometimes the bird comes quickly 
but it can also take many years
before making up its mind
Don't be discouraged
wait
wait if necessary for years
the quickness or the slowness of the coming
of the bird having no relation
to the success of the picture
When the bird comes
if it comes
observe the deepest silence
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and when it has entered
gently close the door with the paint-brush
then
one by one paint out all the bars
taking care not to touch one feather of the bird
Next make a portrait of the tree
  choosing the finest of its branches for the bird paint also the green leaves and the 
freshness of the wind dust in the sun and the sound of the grazing cattle in the heat 
of summer and wait for the bird to decide to sing if the bird does not sing it is a 
bad sign a sign that the picture is bad but if it sings it is a good sign garden a 
sign that you are ready to sign so then you pluck very gently one of the quills of the 
bird and you write your name in the corner of the picture.
JACQUES PREVERT (translated by PAUL DEHN)

Vaquero
The cowboy stands beneath a brick-orange moon. The top of his oblong head is blue, the 
sheath of his 
hips is too.
In the dark brown night your delicate cowboy stands quite still. His plain hands are 
crossed. His 
wrists are embossed white.
In the background night is a house, has a blue chimney top, Yi, Yi, the cowboy's eyes 
are blue. The 
top of the sky is too.
Vaquero: Cowboy
EDWARD DORN
Late Winter
The pallid cuckoo Sent up in frail Microtones His rising scale
On the cold air. What joy I found Mounting that tiny Stair of sound.
JAMES McAULEY

Harvest Home
The wagons loom like blue caravans in the dusk; They lumber mysteriously down the 
moonlit lanes.
We ride on the stacks of rust gold corn, Filling the sky with our song.
The horses toss their heads and the harness-bells Jingle all the way.
HERBERT READ

The Tide in the River
 The tide in the river,  The tide in the river, The tide in the river runs deep.  I 
saw a shiver  
Pass over the river
As the tide turned in its sleep.
ELEANOR FARJEON

Talk
I wish people, when you sit near them, wouldn't think it necessary to make 
conversation and send thin draughts of words blowing down your neck and ears and 
giving you a cold in your inside.
D. H. LAWRENCE

Splinter
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of 
good-bye.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.
CARL SANDBURG

Daffodils
In spite of cold and chills
That usher in the early spring
We have the daffodils.
KIKURIO

Setting the Table
Evenings When the house is quiet I delight To spread the white Smooth cloth and put 
the flowers on the table.
I place the knives and forks around Without a sound. I light the candles.
I love to see Their small reflected torches shine Against the greenness of the vine 
And garden.
Is that the mignonette, I wonder, Smells so sweet?
And then I call them in to eat.
DOROTHY ALDIS
Spring
The last snow is going, Brooks are overflowing, And a sunny wind is blowing
Swiftly along.
Through the sky birds are blowing, On earth green is showing, You can feel earth 
growing
So quiet and strong.
A sunny wind is blowing, Farmer's busy sowing, Apple trees are snowing,
And shadows grow long.
Now the wind is slowing, Cows begin lowing, Evening clouds are glowing
And dusk is full of song.
HARRY BEHN

Roads Go Ever Ever On
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
J. R. R. TOLKIEN

The Elephant
When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a little tail 
behind, So LARGE 
a trunk before.
HILAIRE BELLOC

Pause
When I am very earnestly digging I lift my head sometimes, and look at the mountains, 
And muse upon 
them, muscles relaxing.
I think how freely the wild grasses flower there, How grandly the storm-shaped trees 
are massed in 
their gorges And the rain-worn rocks strewn in magnificent heaps.
Pioneer plants on those uplands find their own footing. No vigorous growth, there, is 
an evil weed: 
All weathers are salutary . . .
MARY URSULA BETHELL

I'm Nobody! Who are You?
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too? 
Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody! 
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.	
	EMILY DICKINSON

Taking Off

The airplane taxis down the field, And heads into the breeze.
It lifts its wheels above the ground, It skims above the trees,
It rises higher and higher
Away up toward the sun,
It's just a speck against the sky
- And now it's gone!
ANON

Swift Things Are Beautiful
Swift things are beautiful: Swallows and deer And lightning that falls Bright-veined 
and clear, Rivers and meteors, Wind in 
the wheat, The strong-withered horse, The runner's sure feet.
And slow things are beautiful: The closing of day, The pause of the wave That curves 
downward to spray, The ember that 
crumbles, The opening flower, And the ox that moves on In the quiet of power.
ELIZABETH COATSWORTH

The Heron
He stands in rippling water, alone. The water Ripples round his knees, and gently 
tangles Weed around 
his scaled
shins, His head Is grey, with jets of unspoilt black; white At the thighs, myriads of 
little fluffy 
feathers. Alone, still, he
stands, gaunt with Time, golden bill poised to strike; Perfect feathers, preened and 
stiff. He 
strikes. His bill flashes in
the Sunlight, and drags, speared with His needle point, a fish, dripping Blood. Head 
first, into his 
swelling Crop it
goes. There he stands, still, alone, In the everlasting peace Of running water.
ROGER LINDLEY (aged 11)

Once the Days
Once the days were clear Like mountains in water, The mountains were always there And 
the mountain 
water;
And I was a fool leaving Good land to moulder, Leaving the fences sagging And the old 
man older To 
follow my wild
thoughts Away over the hill, Where there is only the world And the world's ill,
sings Harry.
DENIS GLOVER

The Termite
Some primal termite knocked on wood And tasted it, and found it good, And 
that is why your cousin May Fell through
the parlour floor today.
 OGDEN NASH 

On a Tired Housewife
Here lies a poor woman who was always tired, She lived in a house where 
help wasn't hired: Her last words on earth
were: "Dear friends, I am going To where there's no cooking, or washing, 
or sewing, For everything there is exact to
my wishes, For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes. I'll be 
where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of singing. Don't mourn for me now, 
don't mourn for me never, I am going to do nothing
for ever and ever."
ANONYMOUS
 
O Wind, Why Do You Never Rest
O wind, why do you never rest,  Wandering, whistling to and fro, Bringing rain out of 
the west,
From the dim north bringing snow?
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

When I Was a Bird
I climbed up the karaka tree Into a nest all made of leaves But as soft as feathers. I 
made up a song 
that went on
singing all by itself And hadn't any words, but got sad at the end. There were daisies 
in the grass 
under the tree. I
said just to try them: "I'll bite off your heads and give them to my little children 
to eat." But 
they didn't believe I was a
bird; They stayed quite open. The sky was like a blue nest with white feathers And the 
sun was the 
mother bird
keeping it warm. That's what my song said: though it hadn't any words. Little Brother 
came up the 
path, wheeling his
barrow I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet. Then when he was quite near I 
said: "Sweet, 
sweet!" For a
moment he looked quite startled; Then he said: "Pooh, you are not a bird; I can see 
your legs." But 
the daisies didn't
really matter; And Little Brother didn't really matter; I felt just like a bird.
KATHERINE MANSFIELD

The Snail
At sunset, when the night-dews fall, Out of the ivy on the wall With horns 
outstretched and pointed 
tail Comes the
grey and noiseless snail. On ivy stems she clambers down, Carrying her house of brown. 
Safe in the 
dark, no
greedy eye Can her tender body spy, While she herself, a hungry thief, Searches out 
the freshest 
leaf. She travels on
as best she can Like a toppling caravan.
JAMES REEVES

Country Tune
As I went out to walk Beside the river flowing, I saw what I'd not hoped to 
see: A black man washing a white horse.
That's how the world is going.
He washed the horse's tail And plaited it with yellow. The wild-west show 
had come to town That's how I saw the
high white horse And the brave black fellow.
The wild hawks flew above the smoke, Above the river flowing; The drunken 
cowboy stumbled past And his long legs
without his will Took him were he was going.
I saw his eyes of bitter blue, Who crossed my path unknowing, Who would 
leap over my head that night Over the
tentpole, over the stars, Over the river flowing.
I never hope to see again The white horse decked in yellow, The horse, the 
hawks, the river in flood, The cowboy's
eyes of bitter blue Or the brave black fellow.
ELIZABETH RIDDELL


Hate
Hate swelled up inside me, Choking me, strangling me, Hiding me from myself 
behind it. I could only stand and
watch me as I bellowed and shouted at my friend.
I heard me abuse him, Poison others against him And do many despicable 
things. Then myself forced its way
through And I shook hands and said I was sorry.
Hate is a funny thing; It splits you in two, One part against the other, So 
that you can never win.
DAVID EVA (aged 13)

The Park
 I'm glad that I Live near a park
For in the winter After dark
The park lights shine As bright and still
As dandelions On a hill.
JAMES S. TIPPETT

Weather
Weather is the answer
When I can't go out into flowery places;
Weather is my wonder
About the kind of morning
Hidden behind the hills of sky.
HILDA CONKLING
