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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Night Fall

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A NIGHT-TIME POEM FROM ME TO YOU

A candyfloss mist creeping in from the east
Settling
softly
silently
stealthily.

A sprinkling of dust through the leaves of the trees
Stretched out-and-in shadows staring fiercely at me.

Colours deepening, darkening –
Fading and faLLING
to the ground.

Lost in the black of the night,
Like a blanket that covers your head.
When you’re scared.

NIGHT HAS FALLEN
FROM THE SKY.

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Thinking about ‘homework’

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Mrs Glossia told us that we should think about the words we use, especially when we’re writing excellent essays.

There are so many hundreds and thousands of words to choose from, we need to make sure the ones we pick are REALLY and TRULY the best words ever.

Mrs Glossia uses the word HOMEWORK all the time so I’ve decided to think about that.

It’s a compound word because it’s made up of two words: HOME and WORK.
SCHOOLWORK is another compound word.

I think that some compound words have to belong together, like SCHOOL and WORK.

But some shouldn’t belong together: like HOME and WORK.

These don’t belong together because HOME is home and WORK is work.

Mum’s always telling Dad it’s important to get a HOME/WORK balance so I’m preparing a petition for Mrs Glossia to end homework FOREVER.

Melly Fanshawe has signed it and so has Ruby Frost. (Paul Picklebottom said he’d only sign a petition about making chocolate compulsory in school lunches.)

Will you sign my petition too?

Yours in hope of no more homework,
Harriet Bright

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This blog belongs to Harriet Bright

Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


A poem for my mum

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the hours grow smaller
in the morning
when the tick, tick, tick
of a clock
is all that’s left to fill
the empty space
made by silence.

a grandfather’s clock
from my father’s father’s father.
It chimes in the middle
of the night
like a fright –
unexpected.

alone.

awake.

and
waiting.

watching trees
in the breeze
dancing,
wildly tangled patterns
on the curtains
mangled
menacing.

waiting.

for morning noise.

and mum.

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Nearly over story but still starring Harriet Bright

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NOT LOST IN SPACE
Part 3 (if you haven’t read parts 1 and 2 you will be totally confused!)

The corridor was full of green children. They were singing:
Here a Martian.
There a Martian.
Everywhere a Martian, Martian.

‘It must be fancy dress for the junior school,’ said Ruby Frost. ‘They’ve got the best costumes ever. They really look like Martians.’

‘That fake skin is so ALIEN,’ said Melly Fanshawe, touching one of the green children.

Then they saw Mr Moody, the sports teacher, being carried past on a stretcher.

‘What happened to Mr Moody?’ said Reece Thomas.

‘Someone said he fainted during PE with the juniors,’ said Ruby Frost.

‘He probably saw a Martian,’ sniggered Paul Picklebottom. ‘They’re everywhere today.’

Harriet Bright blushed. ‘But -‘ she said.

‘I don’t think your Martian was real, Harriet,’ said Melly Fanshawe. ‘One of the juniors has HOODwiNKed you. It could have happened to anyone.’

‘Yeah, anyone with a pea brain,’ said Paul Picklebottom. ‘Let’s go. Before we bump into KING KONG!’

Everyone laughed.

‘No, wait,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘Marta is -‘

But they had all walked away.

Harriet Bright was alone in the corridor when the space probe flew through the window and opened out into a hologram of Marta:

Hello, Harriet
Sorry I didn’t meet your leader but my primary life forms XP1a and ZP2b decided to leave early after the seagulls ate all their chips at Manly. When they landed the spaceship on your school oval, some little humans were there, jumping in the air. They were very excited to meet us and wanted to come to Mars. So they did!

We left the big human who was with them behind. He made a lot of noise when he saw us and then fell backwards. We have studied non-verbal communication at space school and deduced this meant: I DON’T WANT TO GO TO MARS.

Some of our little Martians wanted to stay on Earth. So they did! ICE has begun. Can the Martianettes stay with you and your primary life forms Mum and Dad, please? They’re small and scrunchy so they won’t take up too much space.

Would you like to come to Mars one day? We could take the Galaxy Hop and visit Pluto. I know it’s your favourite planet.

GOODBYE HARRIET

Love from Marta Martian

THE END (really and truly)

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Not so new story because it’s halfway through but still starring Harriet Bright

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NOT LOST IN SPACE
Part 2
(read Part 1 to catch up on the breath-taking drama so far)

‘There’s nothing there,’ said Paul Picklebottom.

‘You have to look really closely,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘Martians are very shy so they scrunch themselves up so that you can hardly see them.’

‘They’ve very good at it,’ said Melly Fanshawe, peering at the screen. ‘But I think I can see something. Is that her?’ She pointed to the top corner of the screen.

‘It’s a SMUDGE,’ said Paul Picklebottom.

‘It’s an ALIEN smudge,’ said Reece Thomas. ‘She looks nice, Harriet.’

‘Marta IS nice,’ said Harriet Bright.

‘Is Marta your new friend?’ said Ruby Frost. ‘I didn’t know you were looking for a new friend.’

‘When you said I was your best friend in the whole world,’ said Melly Fanshawe,’ did that mean the universe too?’

Harriet Bright nodded.

‘Does Marta go to school on Mars?’ said Reece Thomas.

‘Yes, and they’re studying humans,’ said Harriet Bright.

‘They want humans for their horrid experiments,’ said Paul Picklebottom, ‘like SUCKING our brains out through our nostrils.’

‘Marta wouldn’t do that,’ said Harriet Bright.

‘The Ancient Egyptians did that,’ said Ruby Frost. She was the best in the class at history.

‘Marta’s got a special project for the holidays,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘She wants to set up ICE – an Intergalactic Cultural Exchange between Earth kids and Mars kids. I’m going to take her to our leader – Mrs Glossia. If -‘

There was a sudden BURST of noise from the corridor.

‘SOMETHING’S HAPPENING,’ shouted Melly Fanshawe.

They clattered out of the classroom and into the corridor as fast as they could.

It had been a long time since something had happened.

TO BE CONTINUED
(if whatever’s happening in the corridor doesn’t keep happening …)

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Annika’s poem

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Annika is 6 and a quarter.

She made up this poem on the dot and said that I could share it with you.

Thanks, Annika. She’s a poet don’t you know it:

It’s your birthday today :)
You say, ‘Yay, yay, yay!’ :)
You have lots of fun :)
But then it’s done, done, done. :(

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


New Harriet Bright story, starring Harriet Bright

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NOT LOST IN SPACE
Part 1

‘I met a Martian this morning,’ said Harriet Bright as she unpacked
her school bag.

It was 8.45 am on Monday and the Year Fours were in their classroom.

‘Did you?’ said Reece Thomas, looking up from his Superman comic. ‘What kind of Martian?’

‘The usual kind,’ said Harriet Bright, putting her lunch in her desk. ‘A green extraterrestrial with yiCky-stiCky skin who lives on Mars.’

‘AS IF!’ said Paul Picklebottom, slouching in his chair. ‘Mars is the God of War. A Martian might travel all the way across the galaxy to meet a fierce warrior like ME. Not a GROTTY GIRL like you.’

‘If Harriet says she met a Martian then she met a Martian,’ said Melly Fanshawe, Harriet Bright’s best friend in the whole world. ‘Was it a girl Martian or a boy Martian, Harriet?’

‘It was a girl Martian,’ said Harriet.

‘But what’s a girl Martian doing here?’ said Ruby Frost, who had an inquiring mind. ‘Mars is 78 million kilometres away from Earth. Is she lost in space?’

‘No,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘There was a special deal on galaxyhoppers.com so a whole bunch of Martians came here for a holiday.’

Ruby Frost, who was prone to panic, screamed. ‘Are we being invaded?’ she cried. ‘Should I tell Mum to cancel my violin lesson after school?’

‘No,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘Invasion isn’t on their list of things to do today. They’re climbing the Harbour Bridge and catching the ferry to Manly to eat fish and chips on the beach.’

‘Did your Martians come here on a spaceship?’ said Reece Thomas.

‘Yes,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘A spaceship with a 3D movie theatre, a wave pool, a galaxy adventure playground, an ice-cream parlour with astronomically delicious flavours, and a Milky Way restaurant with Plutonian pancakes.’

‘Liar, liar, pants are on fire,’ sang Paul Picklebottom.

‘I am NOT a liar on fire,’ said Harriet Bright. ‘I really did meet a Martian. And I took a photo of her for my MAGNIFICENT MOMENTS scrapbook. Do you want to see it?’

They all crowded around to look at her camera.

TO BE CONTINUED
(if the Martians don’t get her first!)

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


I want to be an ologist

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An ologist is someone who knows a lot.

I don’t know a lot yet but I know I want to be an ologist.

And did you know that the world is CHOCK full of ologists? They are running around everywhere.

Ruby Frost is SO lucky.
She’s a knowitallologist already.

I think Paul Picklebottom has real potential too.
He could be a noseyparkerologist.

There’s a whole alphabet of ologists. I found these ones hiding
in the dictionary:
* archaeologist (digs in the dirt)
* apologist (says sorry a lot)
* campanologist (rings bells all the time)
* horologist (makes and fixes watches)
* lexicologist (studies words)
* neologist (studies new words)
* oologist (knows a lot about birds eggs)
* speleologist (explores caves)
* zoologist (knows all about animals).

There are so many ology options to consider.

A chocologist is probably my first choice of ologist because I’d have to eat lots of chocolates and I’m already good at that.

What kind of ologist do you want to be when you grow up?

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


A passing poem

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This is a passing poem because it came and then it went.

a pale blue balloon
fell from the sky
into the arms
of a man
sitting

lonely

until
the balloon
pOPPed
by.

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Thoughts of a nine-year-old poet
don’t you know it


Wrapping up to Christmas

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It’s Christmas Day in less than a week,
And I can hardly even sleep.

Forty winks are not for me,
When lights are twinkling on the tree.

I posted my Wish List to Mum in June.
She said it cheered her Winter Gloom.

Did she like No. 1, or 2, or 3 or 4?
That’s okay if she didn’t – I had 46 more.

I wished to fly in the sky in a hot-air balloon.
Or rocket through space to visit the moon.

I’d be tres enchante with a holiday in France.
(But Mum hates snails so there’s probably no chance.)

My very special wish was for a palomino horse.
(Although then we’d have to buy a paddock, of course.)

May all my wishes soon come true.
And a very merry Xmas to you and you.

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