Musician's Lament
I may be a goon On the bassoon But I can blow. I may be dumb On the drum Or piccolo. 
I'm inclined to dither On the
zither Or the flute. When I sing People fling Fruit.
DAVID MOWBRAY (AGE 12)

Poems by Australian Children
Thoughts in Winter
The trees bend over as if begging the wind not to break them down.
The trees look as though they are one-legged men, shivering in the wind.
The leaves are trailing the wind everywhere it goes.
They are servants picking up the veil of the wind.
CHRISTINE JONES
My Dream Pony
My pony has a proud head
a glossy coat
a grey beauty
Her windblown mane is flowing out
dancing out streaming out
Her clammy coat is sticky
and lathered and soapy
Her hooves are pounding like a stone like a drum
The beauty of her spirit is wild and free.
GAY MURREL
Sunflower
I see the sunflower moving, Across the sky it moves, Its head moves and weeps, It 
follows the sun and the seeds
Look at me.
JEAN BARRON
Leaves
Children dive for the leaves,
They boot the leaves;
Their colours blast out.
They thunder down on the river,
They swirl round the trees and islands.
PHILIP CAMAC
World in the Space Hand
World is a huge marble.
Space is a hand
Ready to fire it.
WAYNE THOMPSON
Thinking
When you think
It's like your heart
Beating in your head.
It's like a black wall,
And you can't get over it.
ROSLYN HADLEY

Hare
WILLIAM HART-SMITH
He comes loping across the flat from the direction of the willows.
He is reddish-brown in colour and small indeed from this distance.
The white sheep are still, or moving forward slowly as they graze,
and the white lambs are lying down by the side of the sheep.
And the hare comes skipping across my line of vision thinking I do not see him.
And I would not have seen him had he not moved.
He stops behind a tuft of tussock and lifts his ears and his head and his nose,
and I can see him., I can see his ears.
I could shoot him from here with a single shot through the tussock;
but I have no gun.
He moves again, boldly across the open; not running,
advancing from cover to cover and stalking the house that sits on the hill
and watches the fields and the hills,
and the river and the trees.
the still white sheep and the still white lambs.
He thinks the house is a face that watches the world on a sharp look out for hares,
with its doorway mouth and the window eyes that shine in the sun,
and the roof for a large red hat and the chimney a gun.

The Mouse in the Wainscot

Hush, Suzanne! Don't lift your cup. That breath you heard Is a mouse getting up.
As the mist that steams From your milk as you sup, So soft is the sound Of a mouse 
getting up.
There! did you hear His feet pitter-patter, Lighter than tipping Of beads in a 
platter,
And then like a shower On the window pane The little feet scampering Back again?
O falling of feather!
O drift of a leaf! The mouse in the wainscot Is dropping asleep.
IAN SERRAILLIER

The End of The Road

In these boots and with this staff Two hundred leagues and a half Walked I, went I, 
paced I, gripped I, Marched I,
held I, skelped I, slipped I, Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I; Picked I, forded, 
swam and splashed I, Strolled I,
climbed I, crawled and scrambled, Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled; 
Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and
tramped I, And in lonely spinnies camped I, Lingered, loitered, limped and 
crept I, Clambered, halted, stepped and
leapt I, Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I, And ... Let me not conceal it 
... rode I.
HILAIRE BELLOC

Pines

Cones exploding sharply in the heat? ...
and I thought it was the voice of branches talking when they meet. Strange flowers 
these, that bloom 
woodenly in dark trees and open their petals in audible jerks. But that's evidently 
the way a pine tree works.
WILLIAM HART-SMITH

Hare in Summer

In a little strip of shade
That a strainer-post has made,
Squats a weakly panting hare.
All day he has squatted there.
Only with the shade he shifts.
As I approach, he slowly lifts
His goggling eyes, but will not run,
Fearing me less than the naked sun.
	FLEXMORE HUDSON

Wind Song
When the wind blows The quiet things speak, Some whisper, some clang, Some creak.
Grasses swish. Treetops sigh. Flags slap and snap at the sky. Wires on poles whistle and hum. Ashcans 
roll. Windows drum.
When the wind goes - suddenly then, the quiet things are quiet again.
LILIAN MOORE

My Brother Bert
Pets are the Hobby of my brother Bert. He used to go to school with a Mouse 
in his shirt.
His Hobby it grew, as some hobbies will, And grew and grew and grew until
Oh don't breathe a word, pretend you haven't heard. A simply appalling 
thing has occurred
The very thought makes me iller and iller: Bert's brought home a gigantic 
Gorilla!
If you think that's really not such a scare, What if it quarrels with his 
Grizzly Bear?
You still think you could keep your head? What if the Lion from under the 
bed
And the four Ostriches that deposit Their football eggs in his bedroom 
closet
And the Aardvark out of his bottom drawer All danced out and joined in the 
Roar?
What if the Pangolins were to caper Out of their nests behind the wallpaper?
With the fifty sorts of Bats That hang on his hatstand like old hats,
And out of a shoebox the excitable Platypus Along with the Ocelot or 
Jungle-Cattypus ?
The Wombat, the Dingo, the Gecko, the Grampus - How they would shake the house 
with their Rumpus!
Not to forget the Bandicoot Who would certainly peer from his battered old 
boot.
Why it would be a dreadful day, And what Oh what would the neighbours say!
TED HUGHES

In the Fog
Stand still. The fog wraps you up and no one can find you.
Walk. The fog opens up to let you through and closes behind you.
LILIAN MOORE

Old Blue
I had a dog and his name was Blue, And I bet you five dollars he was a good 
one too. Sayin' come on Blue, you
good dog you.
Now Blue treed a possum, in a cinnamon tree, Blue looked at the possum, 
possum looked at me, Sayin' come on
Blue, you good dog you.
Blue treed a possum on a cinnamon limb,
Blue sat down and talked to him. Sayin' come on Blue, you good dog you.
I like my possum stew good and brown, And lay them sweet potatoes round and 
round. Sayin' come on Blue, you
can have some too.
Now Blue what makes your eyes so red? I'm running them possums till I'm 
almost dead. Sayin' come on Blue, you
good dog you.
Blue got sick, and very sick, Send for the Doctor to come quick. Sayin' 
come on Blue, you good dog you.
Called for the Doctor, and he come in a run, He says 'Blue, your hunting 
days are done.' Sayin' go on Blue, you good
dog you.
Now old Blue died, and he died so hard,
Scratched little holes round my back yard.
Sayin' go on Blue, you good dog you.
I dug his grave with a silver spade,
Lowered him down with a golden chain.
Sayin' go on Blue, I'm a-coming too.
Dug his grave in a shady place,
Covered him over with a possum's face.
Sayin' go on Blue I'm a-coming too.
When I get to Heaven, first thing I'll do,
I'll take my horn and blow for Blue.
Sayin' come on Blue, you god dog you.

An American Folk Song

Thunder and Lightning
Blood punches through every vein
As lightning strips through the windowpane.
Under its flashing whip, a white
Village leaps to sight.
On tubs of thunder, fists of rain\
Slog it out of sight again.
Blood punches the heart with fright
As rain belts the village night.

JAMES KIRKUP

The Porcupine
Any hound a porcupine nudges
Can't be blamed for harbouring grudges.
I know one hound that laughed all winter
At a porcupine that sat on a splinter.

OGDEN NASH

Early Rain
After the long drought
The sun goes quickly out.
Leaf after leaf in the laden trees
Like cat's ears flick.
Dusty flowers on a dry stick
Stagger beneath the blows
Of the downpour breeze.
Each tree is a sounding drum,
And every rose
Is trampled in the hum
Of the shower's watery breeze.

JAMES KIRKUP

Until We Built a Cabin
When we lived in a city (three flights up and down) I never dreamed how many stars 
could show above a town.
When we moved to a village where lighted streets were few, I thought I could see ALL 
the stars, but, Oh, I never
knew
Until we built a cabin where hills are high and far, I never knew how many
many stars there really are!
AILEEN L. FISHER

The People
The ants are walking under the ground, And the pigeons are flying over the steeple, 
And in between are the people.
ELIZABETH MADOX ROBERTS

It Is Raining
It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain? Where would you like to be?
I'd like to be on a city street, Where the rain comes down in a driving 
sheet, Where it wets the houses - roof and wall - the wagons and horses and cars and 
all. That's where I'd like to be in 
the rain, that's where I'd like to be.
It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain? Where would you like to be?
I'd like to be in a tall tree top, where the rain comes dripping, drop, 
drop, drop, around on every side: where it wets the
farmer, the barn, the pig, the cows, the chickens both little and big; 
where it batters and beats on a field of wheat and
makes the little birds hide.
It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain? Where would you like to be?
I'd like to be on a ship at sea, where everything's wet as wet can be. and 
the waves are rolling high, where sailors are
pulling the ropes and singing, and wind's in the rigging and salt spray's 
stinging, and round us sea gulls cry. On a
dipping skimming ship at sea - that's where I'd like to be in the rain; that's 
where I'd like to be!
LUCY SPRAGUE MITCHELL

Down! Down!
Down, Down! Yellow and brown The leaves are falling over the town.
ELEANOR FARJEON

Dandelion
0 little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with 
your green gun And your yellow
beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight!
HILDA CONKLING

Rain Rivers
It's raining. Street streams and rain rivers are flowing, and little twig boats are 
towing leaf barges

LILIAN MOORE

Last Song
To the Sun
Who has shone
All day,
To the Moon
Who has gone away
To the milk-white,
Silk-white,
Lily-white star
A fond goodnight
Wherever you are.

JAMES GUTHRIE


