Solo Poems Verse Speaking Poems by lindayy

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									Solo Poems

Prep/Year One     Bubbles by Annette Kosseris
                  Rickety Train Ride by Tony Millton.

Years 2/3         Under the Bed by Penny Tryznka
                  Our Street by C.J. Dennis

Years 4/5         Mum There’s a Monster in the House by Grace Knight
                  The Swagman by C.J. Dennis

Years 6/7         Babysitter by Robyn Klein
                  My Girl Gladys by Grahame Watt

Verse Speaking Poems

Prep/Year One     Gymnastics by Judith Kirkwood

Years 2/3         Skeleton House by Laurence Smith

Years 4/5         S.T.O.P by Stuart Gorden

Years 6/7         The Women of the West by George Essex Evans

I’m blowing soapy circles
High up in the air.
Look. Two flew up together!
That is called a pair.
Not a pear for eating,
Juicy, sweet and ripe;
Just two little bubbles
From my bubble pipe.

Annette Kosseris
                RICKETY TRAIN RIDE

                     By Tony Mitton

I’m taking the train to Ricketywick.
Clickety clickety clack.
I’m sat in my seat
With a sandwich to eat
As I travel the trickety track.

It’s an ever so rickety trickety train
And I honestly thinkety think
That before it arrives
At the end of the line
It will tip up my drippety drink.
                    UNDER THE BED
                      By Penny Trzynka

There’s a terrible green monster
Who lives beneath my bed.
I hear his long white teeth click.
He’s waiting to be fed.
I shiver underneath my sheets
And squeeze my eyes up tight.
Maybe if I lie real still
He won’t eat me tonight . . .
He taps me on the shoulder.
I don’t know what to do.
He looks at me and says, “I’m scared!
Can I get in with you?”
By C.J. Dennis

In our street, the main street
Running through the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men,
Men loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man,
He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
I think he’s often sick;

The fruiterer’s a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, “Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?

Of all the men in our street
I like the cobbler best,
Tapping, tapping at his last
Without a minute’s rest;

Talking all the time he taps,
Driving in the nails
Smiling with his old grey eyes-
(Hush). . . telling fairy tales.
                  MUM, THERE’S A MONSTER

                         By Grace Knight

‘There’s a monster in my cupboard,
Honest, Mum, look.’
But Mum, she just ignored me,
She sat and read her book.

‘He’s breaking down the cupboard door,
There’s splinters everywhere.
His nose is wide and snottery,
His ears are sprouting hair.

There’s a monster in the hallway,
Mum, you Must believe me.’
But Mum said, ‘Yes my darling,’
Then switched on the telly.

Great! He’s eaten the coat rack,
And with it, my school jacket.
‘Mum, this monster’s angry,
And i think it’s time to leg it!

‘Mum, there’s a monster,
He’s right behind your chair!
Too late for Mum to move...
Because he ate her then and there.
The Swagman
Oh, he was old and he was spare;        He told me that he wanted work,
His bushy whiskers and his hair         But jobs were scarce this side of
Were all fussed up and very grey        Bourke,
He said he’d come a long, long way      And he supposed he’d have to go
And had a long, long way to go.         Another fifty miles or so.
Each boot was broken at the toe.        “Nigh all my life the track I’ve
And he’d a swag upon his back.          walked,”
His billy-can, as black as black,       He said. I liked the way he talked.
Was just the thing for making tea       And oh, the places he had seen!
At picnics, so it seemed to me.         I don’t know where he had not been-
                                        On every road, in every town,
‘Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,     All through the country, up and down.
He told me. Then he shook his head,     “Young codger, shun the track,” he
And all the little cords that hung      said.
Around his hat-brim danced and swung    And put his hand upon my head.
And bobbed about his face; and when     I noticed, then, that his old eyes
I laughed he made them dance again.     Were very blue and very wise.
He said they were for keeping flies-    “Ay, once I was a little lad,”
“The pesky varmints” – from his eyes.   He said, and seemed to grow quite
He called me “Codger”…”Now you see      sad.
The best days of your life,” said he.
“But days will come to bend your        I sometimes think: When I’m a man,
back,                                   I’ll get a good black billy-can
And, when they come, keep off the       And hang some corks around my hat
track.                                  And lead a jolly life like that.
Keep off, young codger, if you can.”
He seemed a funny sort of man.
                                        C.J. Dennis

by Robyn Klein

I babysit sometimes on Saturday nights
and earn every cent of my money!
If I want to watch a Shakespearian play,
she wants Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny.

She’s naughty and spoiled and won’t go to bed
till she phones up and chats to some DJs,
then makes me uncover the sewing machine
to turn her nightdress into PJs.

‘It’s bedtime! I say when the clock reaches ten,
but I might as well say it in Latin,
two minutes later she’s up and about
to complain that her pillow’s been sat in.

She claims there’s a spider inside her left ear;
that her mattress is stuffed with sharp rocks;
then expects me to ring the police and report
that a burglar has stolen her bedsocks.

At twelve her bed’s empty! I search the whole house,
through each room in a panic I run,
and darn nearly die of sheer terror when she
pounces out yelling, ‘Boo! This is fun!’

I’m worn out, exhausted. Knocked up and fatigued,
and feel that my pay should be double,
when the Millers return from their party and ask,
‘Was darling old Gran any trouble?’
                                      My Girl Gladys
                                     By Grahame Watt

Strewth! I’m feeling chirpy!                  I kept talkin’ lots of rubbish
And me feet is in the air;                    ‘bout wheat and crops and stuff,
I’ve got a bonzer sort of feelin’             Tryin’ to sound important
And I haven’t got a care.                     and not to be too rough!

And if you’re wonderin’ what has hit me.      And cripes!, she looked real interested
What has made me like a clown,                She stopped shovellin’ for a while.
It’s Gladys that I told you ‘bout,            She said “It’s good to see you Dave!”
The one I met in town.                        And she gave a crackin’ smile.

Her father’s got the corner place             I thought, it’s now or never.
Down by the three mile creek.                 I said, “How’d you like to go
“Glad” was workin’ down there with her        To the dance down at Goomalibee,
Dad                                           It’ll be a bonzer show!”
when I called around last week.
                                              Well stone the crows, she nodded.
She was muckin’ out the pig sty,              She’d go! She said “Alright!”
And gawd! She looked a treat,                 It sounds real good, it does, Dave,
In a dress of red with flowers on,            And I’ll see you Sat’dy night.”
And gum boots on her feet.
                                              I can hardly wait for Sat’dy,
Her hair was sort of wind-blown,              The days are just a blur,
And her eyes, her eyes, they smiled.          I’ve been moonin’ round and dreamin’,
And when she said “G’day” to me,              Me and Gladys!, me and her!
It nearly drove me wild.
                                              I’ve polished up me hobnail boots,
I put me foot up on the rail,                 Dusted down the gig,
 Tried to act real calm.                      I even sneaked down to the barn
I said “Snifter sort o’ weather               And practiced at a jig.
For us blokes on the farm.”
                                              I’ll have a bath, and oil me hair,
                                              I hope I look alright.
                                              I can hardly wait for me and Gladys,
                                              Goin’ out on Sat’dy night!
By Judith Kirkwood


twisting                                          turning




hurt                       back-again



                 leaping                jumping



                           back again




jumping                    hurt


not going back



By Laurence Smith

Push, push the heavy door
Tip-toe the rotten floor
Step across the missing stair
Is that something over there?
SWISH. . .SWISH. . .SWISH. . .
Behind the curtain, what is that?
A red-eyed rat, a swooping bat
There’s something sitting in that chair
SSH. . . SSSH. . . SSSSH!
His head is white with cobweb hair
OH!. . .NO!. . . SSH!
He starts to speak with clacking jaws
I grab his leg with all my force
PULL. . .PULL. . . . .PULL. . . . . PULL. . .
Just like I’m pulling yours!
. . . .S:T:O:P: . . .
By Stuart Gordon

STOP.STOP.STOP. Waking up, go go go go gogogogogogo.
washing my hands FASTER FASTER getting dressed FASTER FASTER
eat my breakfast FASTER FASTER ready for school FASTER FASTER
kiss my mum goodbye FASTER FASTER on my bike FASTER FASTER
at school working on my maths FASTER FASTER nearly home time
FASTER FASTER no homework, lucky me FASTER FASTER going home
FASTER FASTER at home watching T.V. FASTER FASTER night-time comes
FASTER FASTER pyjamas are on FASTER FASTER lights are off
FASTER FASTER getting drowsy
F-A-S-T-E-R-            F-A-S-T-E-R   F-A-S-T-E-R-   F-A-S-T-E-R

faster     sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep                STOP.STOP.STOP. . . .
The Women of the West                          By George Essex Evans
   They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
        The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
     The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best;
       For love they faced the wilderness – Women of the West.

          The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
  And the old-time joys and faces – they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock-chains,
       O’er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

   In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run
       In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
     In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,
      On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

      The red sun robs their beauty and, in weariness and pain,
   The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
 And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say –
       The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away.

     The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires,
     When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,
    And silence like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast –
    Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

      For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts,
       They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
    But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above –
             The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

    Well have we held our fathers’ creed. No call has passed us by.
     We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
     And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,
    The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

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