Poetry for Kids

I only recently discovered just how popular squishy toys have become. These soft, stretchy, squeezable toys come in all kinds of shapes, sizes, and colors, including cute animals, funny faces, and even pretend food. Kids love to squeeze them, stretch them, squish them, and watch them slowly return to their original shapes. They’re fun to play with, and squeezing them can even help some people relax or relieve stress.

When I learned how much kids love their squishies, I thought it would be fun to write a poem about someone who absolutely adores theirs. After all, a favorite toy can feel almost like a best friend, and what better way to celebrate that friendship than with an ode, a poem of praise?

But then I started thinking about something funny. When you really love a squishy, you don’t just admire it or cuddle it. You squeeze it, squash it, stretch it, twist it, and generally put it through all sorts of terrible treatment. If squishies had feelings, they might have a very different opinion of the relationship!

So I decided to write a poem in which the narrator makes one loving declaration after another, while casually admitting to some rather questionable behavior. The result is “Dear Squishy, I Love You,” a poem about a friendship that’s full of affection, even if it might not always look that way. This is…

Dear Squishy, I Love You

Dear Squishy, I love you.

(I yanked on your nose.)

I treasure our friendship.

(I stomped on your toes.)

You’re thoughtful and caring.

(I stretched out your skin.)

You’re endlessly cheerful.

(I twisted your chin.)

You never get grumpy.

(I pushed in your eyes.)

You never hold grudges.

(I mangled your thighs.)

You make me so happy.

(I pounded your ear.)

You’re one in a million.

(I sat on your rear.)

I’m lucky to have you.

(I scrunched up your cheek.)

I’ll love you forever.

(Except if you leak.)

— Kenn Nesbitt

Halloween is coming up soon, so this year I decided to write several different pumpkin poems. Out of all of them, this one quickly became one of my favorites.

One of the fun things about visiting a pumpkin patch is seeing how many different kinds of pumpkins there are. Some are tall, some are short, some are wide, some are skinny, and some have funny stems or unusual colors and stripes. When every pumpkin has something special about it, picking just one can be a lot harder than it sounds.

That was the idea behind this poem. I wanted to write something simple, playful, and a little bit silly about trying to choose the perfect pumpkin for Halloween. I hope it reminds you of a trip to a pumpkin patch of your own.

Pumpkin Problems

I’m searching for a pumpkin

at The Perfect Pumpkin Patch.

They have so many different kinds.

I can’t find two that match.

I want a jack-o’-lantern for

our house on Halloween.

I found one caked in tons of mud.

I found one squeaky clean.

I found a long and skinny one.

I found one short and wide.

I found a shiny orange one

with stripes along the side.

I found one with a curly stem.

I found one big and tall.

My mom said I could pick and so

I did.

I bought them all.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Football season has just begun, and some members of my family are already enthusiastically watching the games and hoping their favorite team will make it to the Super Bowl again this year.

I’ve written lots of sports poems over the years, including a couple about football. But those poems could just as easily have been about soccer as American football. This is the first poem I’ve written that is unmistakably about American football, complete with a quarterback throwing the ball and sending it spiraling through the air.

When I started thinking about what kind of football poem I wanted to write, I thought it might be fun to tell the story from the football’s point of view. After all, what would it feel like to actually *be* a football? You’d get to soar through the air while thousands of people cheered. Players would leap to catch you, cradle you in their arms, protect you from the other team, and carry you down the field. That sounds like a pretty exciting life.

Of course, being a football might have its downsides too. But I’ll let the football tell you about those itself.

Here’s my newest poem…

It’s Fun to Be a Football

It’s fun to be a football.

It’s phenomenal to fly.

The feeling is fantastic as

I spiral through the sky.

The quarterback releases me.

I rocket through the air

and soar above the roaring cheers

of everybody there.

The players leap to catch me.

Then they form a human shield

to keep me from the other team

and run me down the field.

They hold me close and rock me

like a baby as they run.

I’m glad that I’m a football.

As a football, life is fun.

It’s honestly incredible

except in one regard…

I really wish the players wouldn’t

kick me quite so hard.

 — Kenn Nesbitt

I wrote this poem because, here in the northern hemisphere, summer is almost over and fall will be here in just a few days. But, at least where I live, you wouldn’t necessarily know it from the weather. The days are still sunny and warm, and it still feels a lot like summer, even though I know the cooler autumn weather will be arriving before long.

That got me thinking about what might happen if Summer and Autumn were actual people with jobs to do and schedules to keep. Maybe Summer can’t simply leave whenever he wants. Perhaps he has to wait for Autumn to show up and take over his shift first. And what if Autumn happens to be running a little late?

Of course, when Summer leaves us here in the northern hemisphere, he has somewhere important to go. In places south of the equator, such as Australia, South Africa, and much of South America, the seasons are reversed. Their summer runs roughly from December through March, while we’re having winter. So I imagined Summer getting ready to head south, with people there eagerly waiting for his arrival, while Autumn has reasons of her own for not being quite ready to take his place.

The result is a phone conversation between two very busy seasons trying to sort out their schedules.

Summer and Autumn

The Summer phoned the Autumn

and he asked, “Why aren’t you here?

It’s time for my vacation in

the southern hemisphere.

“My shift is nearly over and

it’s time for me to split.”

The Autumn answered, “Just relax.

I’ll be there in a bit.

“I’m shopping for an outfit.

I could use a brand-new gown.

I need an orange dress with lots

of yellow, red, and brown.

“As soon as I can find the one

I really want to wear,

I’ll come and take your place,

so please be patient. I’ll be there.”

“But Autumn,” said the Summer,

“There’s a place I have to be.

Australia sent a text to say that

they’re expecting me.

“South Africa’s been calling too.

They want me right away.

And down in South America

they’ve asked for no delay.”

So if it’s hot and sunny when

the Autumn should be here,

it’s just the grumpy Summer

working overtime this year.

— Kenn Nesbitt

My wife recently started a new job as a school picture day photographer. Every day when she comes home, she has interesting, and often funny stories about the people and things she photographed that day. She’s taken pictures of hundreds of students, of course, but she’s also photographed teachers, school staff, and even a principal’s dog!

One thing she quickly discovered is that the grown-ups aren’t necessarily any easier to photograph than the kids. Teachers, for example, are much more likely to ask for do-overs of their staff photos because they didn’t like their smile, their hair, or the way they looked in the first one.

After hearing all these stories, I started thinking that picture day sounded like a perfect subject for a poem. My wife agreed and asked me to write a funny picture day poem that she could share with her coworkers.

So I wrote this one. Thankfully, she liked it. I hope you do too.

Picture Day

It’s picture day at school today.

I sat down in the chair

then rolled my tongue and crossed my eyes

and messed up all my hair.

I mugged for the photographer.

She frowned and shook her head,

and told me I should comb my hair

and try to smile instead.

She said, “Say cheese!” I puffed my cheeks

and jutted out my chin,

then stuck my fingers in my ears

and forced a silly grin.

She told me that, for picture day,

our portraits should be formal.

Instead, I made a zombie face,

all twisted and abnormal.

The camera clicked. I laughed so hard

I felt like I might burst.

But she just rolled her eyes and said,

“You teachers are the worst.”

— Kenn Nesbitt