Tea Party © Joy Chellew
Today it lives in a crystal cabinet
my bright little china teapot
shaped like an English cottage.
It’s not valuable to anyone but me.
You see, the secret of its worth
is safely deposited and stored away
in my own special memory bank.
Time was when I arranged
tea parties on lonely afternoons
lovingly shaping pretend cakes
with mud and grass and pretty petals
to share with Betsy, my china doll,
and we took tea and happily chatted.
You think that strange?
I enjoyed those quiet hours
and happy conversations.
In my imagination
our back yard became
my imitation English garden.
To this day I remember
how that little china teapot
poured away all my loneliness.
Rowboat © Maree Silver
Pushing out from
an inlet’s reed-bed
into the amber river
we head upstream
Oars rest in rowlocks
bend stroke bend
body in harmony
at one with the boat
Sun shines through cobalt
warming soothing
young bodies
bather clad
Rays glint from wavelets
splashing gently into banks
Green parrots’ staccato screeches
warn the flock of our intrusion
Reaching Picnic Bend
we swim sunbake
play on the sandy beach
savour our al fresco lunch
Relaxed for return journey
downstream with the current
oars dip and draw around
fallen trees and branches
Arriving back at
our sheltered haven
oars are shipped
Tiny Tim made safe
Summer holidays
have just begun
Childish Things © Jean Sietzema-Dickson
I’ll make a list of all the things
with which my childhood really rings:
of clocks and socks
and chicken pox,
of toys and joys
with playing blocks,
of thrills and spills
in climbing trees,
of blackberries
and wounded knees,
of rhymes and times
of reading books
and kitchen fun
of playing cooks
of cubby houses in the bush
and swinging branches with a whoosh…
of picnics at the creek below our house
of playing Pooh Sticks It was ‘grouse’.
Dropping sticks the upstream side
we ran across to watch them glide
out from beneath the bridge. The creek
flowed slowly. We had time to seek
for berries on the bank.
Not these days!
Our adult lives rush
past us in a haze.
Phoebe © Cecily Falkingham
here she comes, our little princess
she dances lightly in her new pink shoes
multi-coloured ribbons shine
on her bouncing curls
eyes shining, she spins and weaves
her happiness sweeps us up and carries
us to a new realm, where each
minute is precious, each second enough
we could learn a lot from this child
she already knows some of
life’s big secrets
embrace the now, dance, laugh, sing, love,
explore and share these gifts
put on the music grandma, let’s dance
Newborn Janette Fernando
Two become one
and you are conceived,
the moment of birth draws near.
No longer confined,
you are exposed.
We see who you are
and we name you.
You look so perfect –
ten fingers, ten toes, such tiny nails,
a wise but innocent face.
Fragile, yet strong,
helpless, but free;
your life a paradox.
The cord is cut
and one becomes two.
The letting go begins.
Waterfight © Peter White
the water flies
loaded arcs of riotous laughter
cascades of ever building crescendos
down hair, faces, tummies, leg
pools on the grass
slowly turning to mud
delighted yelps of oh no!
help! ring out
like rays of sunshine
bathing the park in summer
wet bodies ducking, weaving
behind slides, trees, somewhere to hide
drenched but elated
tired and wrung out
water buckets packed and stowed
hair shaken out
drying bodies pick up towels
car keys, drive themselves home
Behind the River Reeds © Yan Sun
Across the river
behind the reeds
there lives a Water Dragon
so they say.
Finally I find my way there
on a hot summer’s day;
under the big wooden wheel
water splashes happily.
Pushing through green reeds
I gasp:
It’s him –
the secretive Water Dragon!
No shining scales
just lots of bones
brown, muddy and v-e-r-y long;
it stretches into the rice paddy
that knows no bounds.
Take off my sandals
climb onto the Dragon
slowly I start to walk
and before long I run.
I feel the Dragon moving;
I am flying!
Higher and higher
on the Dragon’s back…
Foreseen © Don Helmore
‘Except you become as little children
you will not enter the heavens.’ Matt 18:3
Bend, and depth-look
into a wee babe’s eyes.
You may peek through
lucid pupils
into warm womb wonder.
In time, beyond
that unborn place,
the acorn mysteries
form a moving
complexity.
Wholesome seed memory
directs wise thought.
Heaven’s spirit.
Look within wee babe’s eyes,
go soon my friends.
The Salon © Leigh Hay
I find them together
quiet as mice
‘Ted’ sitting upright on a little wooden chair
the floor beneath a growing mound
of nylon shavings faintly blue
the colour of him.
She’s wielding scissors
(her very own pair)
vigorously cutting
giving Ted a trim.
“It won’t grow back” I gently tell her.
Then I chance a look at hand-me-down Ted –
legs and arms of moulting fuzz
his glassy bead an eye job in need
jacket faded stuffing missing
and a button nose that’s seen better days…
…and I quietly go back to the ironing.
Child at the March © Catherine m Barnard
Thousands in the city street:
I meet a big dog with massive feet.
His master says he walks today
for many creatures who have no say
as to how they like their habitat.
So many people: I have my dad.
Someone parades as a polar bear;
their ice is melting, so I hear.
Parents with little kids hanging on;
we join the chant – it’s like a song.
All sorts of people with placards;
mine’s a huge green cardboard heart:
Save our beautiful earth!
