Children’s Poetry
Gaynor’s poetry has appeared in The Caterpillar, Tyger Tyger and Paperbound magazines.
Her poems are featured on the Dirigible Balloon website, and also in the Dirigible Balloon’s anthologies: Chasing Clouds: Brilliant Adventures in a Poetry Balloon and Sky Surfing: Excellent Adventures in a Poetry Balloon.
Mary Had a Little Lamb (The Lamb, The Duck and The Goldfish)
Mary had a little lamb.
Her sister had a duck.
Her brother had a goldfish bowl
In which his head got stuck.
Mary’s mum cried, ‘Get it off!
He needs to get some air.’
So, Mary and her sister pulled –
The lamb just didn’t care.
They pushed and tugged till from the bowl
Her brother separated.
Mary’s mum was quite relieved
To see her son aerated.
Mary said, ‘I’ll make some tea
And bring you out a cup.’
Her sister’s duck came waddling past
And ate the goldfish up.
What is Poetry?
Do poems rhyme?
Well, some of the time.
Sometimes, poems bounce along,
A leaping, skipping, hopping song.
And then again, in others’ hands,
They sway and saunter, meander and retreat.
Some are short. To the point. A punchline
To make us laugh.
Sometimes, evoking donkey rides,
And tea and toast, and homecomings.
Or season’s end, decay and death and yearning.
Some tell stories, rollicking yarns
Of highway men and railway cats.
Others are impenetrable as swirling mists.
And though their meaning hides behind obscure words,
Our hearts race.
Cutie-Fruitie
Apricots are tasty,
Apples have a crunch,
I’m the cutie-fruitie.
I’m the sweetest of the bunch.
Oranges are orange,
Blueberries are blue.
I’m a ruby-fruitie
And delicious through and through.
Blackberries in hedges
Pick them if you please.
I’m a cutie-beauty
And I dangle from the trees.
Have you guessed me yet?
Ripened by the sun,
I’m a juicy-fruitie
And I’m loved by everyone.
Queen of springtime blossom,
Cream of any crop.
Truly cutie-fruitie,
I’m the CHERRY on the top.
Going Camping
‘Fiddlesticks and flippers!’ said Coraline to Jack.
‘We’re going on this camping trip, and I forgot to pack
my toothbrush and my towel. And did I bring the soap?
Wait a minute. I’ll just check. Have I got it? … Nope!
‘Daisy chains and doughnuts! I didn’t bring spare socks.
I meant to bring my flashlight too but left it in its box.
I didn’t bring the frying pan, the sausages, the cheese,
the camping stove, my bedding roll … How could I leave all these?
‘I think I left the tent pegs in the kitchen by the door.
It doesn’t matter, ‘cos I left the mallet on the floor.
Pepperpots and pumpkins! Of all the things I meant
to bring with me, how could I leave my brand new camping tent?
‘Oh, Jack! We should have made a list of all the things to pack!’
But Coraline had no reply ...
She’d forgotten to bring Jack.
My Brand New Writing Book
I’ve got a brand new writing book.
I hug it to my chest.
I breathe in tales of lost and found,
Of mystery and quest.
I bend my head down closer still
To catch a whispered word -
A secret plot, a magic spell,
A message overheard.
I lift it up and gently blow.
A rush of air sweeps past
And on it bobs a pirate ship,
Torn sails and battered mast.
I hold the book against my eye
And take a peep inside.
Riders race against the storm
And fiery stars collide.
A dragon flies across the sky,
A bear pounds over snow,
A princess tames a monster, cursed
By witches long ago.
The stories bump and jostle
Through the pages, clean and white.
I take a breath, pick up a pen
I’m ready now to write.
There’s a Chicken at My Door
There’s a chicken at my door
that I’m trying to ignore.
She can SEE that I am napping
but that chicken keeps on tapping.
Now the cockerel’s at it, too,
with his cock-a-doodle-do.
And I know I’m looking surly,
but it really IS quite early!
And look, here comes the cat.
I’m too sleepy for a chat
and pre-breakfast conversation
only adds to my frustration!
Now the cockerel and the hen
have just started up again
and the chicks have joined the rapping
with their clucking and their tapping!
Oh, and right, here come the sheep!
How’s a dog supposed to sleep
with the baa-aas and cock-a-doo-ing?
Wait! Now all the cows are mooing,
while the cat is caterwauling,
and the sheep have come a-calling!
(Though it’s really not yet morning –
can’t they see that I’m still yawning?)
I can tell that they’re all looking…
I can hear the latch unhooking…
And they’re crowding in around me.
Sheep and cows and chicks surround me.
Now the cat is on my head
and the chicken’s in my bed!
And her beak is tap, tap, tapping.
But there’s no more time for napping.
And it’s time I stopped my grumping.
(’Cos I’ve just remembered something –
I can feel my tail start thumping…)
As I open up one eye,
they meow and bleat and cry,
“Surprise, surprise! Get out of bed!
Happy Birthday, Sleepyhead!”
A downloadable poster and lesson plan to accompany this poem can be found on the Tyger Tyger website.
Daytime’s Story
Daybreak glows,
Pink and rose.
Morning new,
Sky stretched blue,
Yellow rays, golden days
Plips and plops, silver drops,
Purple shadows gently play
Daylight hours slip away
Red and orange sunset glory
Softly closes daytime’s story
Grey shades, colour fades
Evening falls,
Black calls.
Little Spring Moon
Moon of snow and ice hung
over the winter field.
Huge,
long moon shadow
stretching over crunch of grass and shard of puddle.
Long nights moon
When it was dark at tea time
and dark when we woke and shivered into morning clothes.
But March arrives with daffodils.
Chill sunshine sparkling on winter-smeared windows,
softening early frost and dancing
with the crocuses down the lane.
Chiffchaffs flit from branch to branch.
A sky lark sings high, high above my head.
Before the sun sets,
Little Spring Moon is there,
Chalky white against the pale blue sky.
And then again, when the sky darkens, deepens to evening blue.
She glows and, through the bare branches,
sends a promise.
Tangrams
I can make a rocket and a flower and a frog.
I can make a turtle and a tower and a dog.
I can make a rabbit and a lion and a cow.
Once I made a panda but I can’t remember how.
I can make a pyramid. I can make a plane.
Watch me take the bits apart and put them back again,
whirling geometric shapes with great artistic flair
But please don’t ask! I cannot put them back to make a square.
Frost
The artist trails his brush,
silvering the tips of the grass blades,
shakes sparkles into the dark,
rims the ribs of fallen leaves.
Then painstakingly,
breathtakingly,
exquisitely
etches the panes with feathery ferns
Perfect Circles
Jay draws perfect circles.
They’re a stunning work of art.
He never has a circle end that cannot meet its start.
He spins the compass expertly.
His patterns are precise.
My paper’s full of holes, like it’s been nibbled on by mice.
Jay draws perfect circles,
which he neatly colours in.
I crumple mine up in a ball and throw it in the bin.