Poetry for Kids

Most of the poems I write start with ideas I come up with on my own. But I also regularly write poems for magazines, textbooks, and even standardized tests for schools, where I’m given a specific assignment to work from.

I wrote this poem at the request of my editor at Scholastic Storyworks 1, a multi-genre magazine for first grade. She was putting together an issue focused on phonological awareness and asked if I could write a poem that repeats a beginning consonant blend, something like “fr-fr-freezing,” where kids can really hear and play with the sound.

I ended up writing a few different options, including one about being freezing cold and another about a puppy that likes to “gr-gr-growl.” But this was the one they chose. I liked the idea of using a slushy because it gave me a fun, silly situation where repeating the “sl” sound—slurp, slow, slushy—felt completely natural and playful.

This poem originally appeared in the December 2025/January 2026 issue of Storyworks 1, and it’s meant to be read out loud. The more you lean into those “sl-sl-sl” sounds, the more fun it becomes, and the more it helps young readers hear how those blends work. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

How to Drink a Slushy

If you want to drink a slushy,

there is something you should know.

You shouldn’t slurp it quickly.

You should sl- sl- slurp it slow.

If you try to slurp it quickly,

you will sl- sl- sl- sl- slurp,

then sl- sl- sl- sl- slurp some more,

then sl- sl- sl- sl- BURP!

— Kenn Nesbitt

Every once in a while, I find myself coming back to one of my favorite kinds of poems to write. I especially enjoy creating characters who are terrible at the one thing they are supposed to be good at. There is something inherently funny about that idea. Over the years, I have written poems like “The Pirate of Pickletown,” “Lorenzo Liszt, Non-Scientist,” and “Steve the Superhero,” all featuring characters who somehow manage to get everything completely wrong.

This poem began the same way. I started thinking about a race car driver, someone whose job is to go fast and win races, and wondered what it would be like if he did the exact opposite. Instead of speeding ahead, what if he took his time, got distracted, and treated the race more like a leisurely Sunday drive?

This is how Rusty Roads came to be. As I wrote, I had fun imagining all the little things he might do differently from a typical race car driver, especially the kinds of habits that would make him a very polite, very careful, and very unsuccessful racer.

I hope you enjoy meeting Rusty as much as I enjoyed writing about him. You may even find that he has a pretty good reason for doing things his own way. This is…

Rusty Roads

The race car driver Rusty Roads has never won a race.

In fact, the best he’s ever done is thirty-seventh place.

He likes to find the scenic route and take it nice and slow.

He’ll stop to ask directions then forget which way to go.

He’ll honk the horn and flash the lights, but then forget to steer.

He’ll holler, “Vroom, vroom, vroom!” while driving in the lowest gear.

He slams the brakes at every turn but barely taps the gas.

He likes to smile and wave at other drivers as they pass.

He’ll pull off on the shoulder when he wants to have a nap.

He’s proud to take his time and come in last on every lap.

And if you ask him why, without a moment’s hesitation,

he’ll tell you, “Life’s about the journey, not the destination.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

Some poems begin with a big idea, and others start with something small and simple. This one began when I was out for a walk on a beautiful day. The weather was just right—not too hot, not too cold—and everything felt bright and cheerful. Without even thinking about it, I realized I had a little extra bounce in my step.

That expression, “a spring in my step,” has always made me smile. It’s such a happy way to describe that feeling when you’re full of energy for no particular reason at all. I liked the sound of it, and I liked the feeling behind it, so I decided to see if I could turn that idea into a poem.

As I wrote, I had fun imagining all the different ways that feeling might show up, skipping, bouncing, practically floating along. But the real challenge was figuring out why it was happening. I tried a few possibilities before settling on the one that felt just right.

I hope this poem puts a little spring in your step too.

A Spring in My Step

I’m bopping along with a spring in my step.

I’m skipping and leaping and loaded with pep.

I’m bounding around like I don’t have a care.

I feel like I’m practically walking on air.

I’m bouncing along like a red rubber ball.

My head’s in the clouds like I’m twenty feet tall.

It’s not that I got some extremely good news,

or ate lots of candy, or bought some new shoes.

But after each winter I get the same thing…

a spring in my step as we step into spring.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved poems and stories that build on themselves—ones where each new line adds something to what came before. You might know stories like “The House That Jack Built” or “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” They’re fun because you can almost predict what’s coming next, and sometimes you can even join in as they go along.

I’ve always wanted to write a poem like that, something that stacks one idea on top of another, step by step.

I also really enjoy stories that are a little bit meta. That’s a fancy word that means a story that knows it’s a story. For example, in my book MORE BEARS!, the author is actually inside the story, trying to write it while everything keeps going wrong. I’ve also written poems where I discover words and turn them into the very poem you’re reading, or where the poem loops around and ends up right back where it started. I even wrote one about building a time machine after my future self came back to show me how!

So when I wrote this poem, I wanted to combine those ideas, a poem that builds and builds, and maybe does something a little surprising along the way. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

On the Street There’s a House

On the street there’s a house.

On the house there’s a door.

Through the door there’s a room.

In the room there’s a floor.

On the floor there’s a stain.

On the stain there’s a rug.

On the rug there’s a leaf.

On the leaf there’s a bug.

On the bug there’s a wing.

On the wing there’s a vein.

On the vein there’s a zigzag

that leads to a lane.

On the lane there’s a car.

In the car there’s a seat.

In the seat there is you

as you drive down the street.

On the street there’s a house.

On the house there’s a door.

Through the door there’s a room.

Do I need to say more?

— Kenn Nesbitt

Most of the time, when I write a poem, the idea sneaks up on me. It might come from something I see, something I hear, or just a silly thought that pops into my head and refuses to leave. But every now and then, I get a very specific assignment.

That’s what happened with this poem. An editor at Storyworks 4–6, a magazine for students in grades four through six, asked me to write about a kid who tries to do something nice for their mom’s birthday, and tries to do it perfectly, but ends up with hilariously disastrous results.

Now, if you’ve ever tried to cook or bake something on your own, you might already know that things don’t always go according to plan. Sometimes you forget an ingredient. Sometimes you add the wrong one. And sometimes… well… sometimes your cake ends up looking a lot more like meatloaf.

As I was writing this poem, I had a lot of fun imagining just how wrong things could go in the kitchen, and how the character might keep going anyway, trying their best to make something special.

This poem was originally published in the February 2026 issue of Storyworks 4–6. I hope it makes you laugh, and maybe even reminds you that sometimes the love that goes into what we do is more important than a perfect result. This is…

The Perfect Cake

Today’s my mother’s birthday.

She’s a connoisseur of cakes.

I tried to bake a masterpiece

but made a few mistakes.

I couldn’t find the flour,

so I stirred in mashed potatoes,

then turned it red as roses

by including stewed tomatoes.

I knew that eggs were needed,

but is seventeen too many?

We had no milk or butter,

so I couldn’t put in any.

The sugar was the weirdest part;

it tasted just like salt!

Her “cake” came out like meatloaf,

which was clearly all my fault.

Mom said, “This cake is perfect

and you’ve totally succeeded!

You made it with a lot of love,

and that is all I needed.”

— Kenn Nesbitt