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Snow’s Nose
I’ve always loved building snowmen. When my kids were younger, we used to spend whole winter afternoons rolling giant snowballs around the yard, hunting for the perfect sticks for arms, and deciding how he should be dresses and decorated. Which hat would work best? Should he have a scarf or a tie? Does he really need a carrot nose or would a button work just as well? This year, I started thinking about how much personality a snowman seems to have by the time you’re done with it. You give it a hat, a scarf, and a pipe, and suddenly it feels like a character—someone who might have opinions about your artistic decisions. I wondered what would happen if a snowman actually could share those opinions. That little idea was enough to spark this poem. The moment I imagined a half-finished snowman watching me choose its accessories, I knew I wanted to write about it. What would a snowman say? What would it care about? What would it absolutely not want? I hope you enjoy the result. Snow’s Nose I made a new snowman out in our front yard. It didn’t take long and it wasn’t too hard. I stacked up some snowballs. I gave them a pat, then threw on a scarf, and a pipe, and a hat. I sculpted some feet from a little more snow, and stuck in some sticks where his arms ought to go. I added some coal for his buttons and eyes, and that’s when he spoke, to my utter surprise. He said to me, “Thanks for the hat, scarf, and pipe. The sticks that you picked are exactly my type. “Now bring me some carrots. You picked all my clothes, but really, I don’t want you picking my nose.” — Kenn Nesbitt
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Soot Suit
I love writing poems about the holiday season, so I wanted to start December off with a new funny poem about Santa Claus. To get myself in the right festive mood, I reread Clement Clarke Moore’s classic poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” better known as “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” As I was reading, a couple of lines jumped out at me: He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; I couldn’t help noticing something amusing about the word “soot.” It looks like it ought to rhyme with “suit,” but it doesn’t. “Soot” actually rhymes with “put” and “foot,” not with “suit” or “boot.” Still, that contrast made me laugh, and I thought there had to be a poem hiding inside that idea somewhere. So I first decided to call it “Soot Suit,” and then sat down to see what I could come up with. And this is the result, my newest holiday poem. Soot Suit When Santa came to visit us on Christmas Eve this year, his eyes were bright and merry and his face was full of cheer. He carried toys and presents in a sack upon his back. But Santa wasn’t dressed in red. Instead, his suit was black. Without his bright red coat and hat he looked a little weird. He also had some smudges on his cheeks and on his beard. We asked if he was trying out a new and different style. He looked down at his blackened suit then answered with a smile. He said, “My suit’s not really black, as maybe you could tell. It only looks that way because your chimney soots me well.” — Kenn Nesbitt
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Thanksgiving
One question students often ask me is what my favorite “kind” of poem is. That is, they want to know if I like haiku or limericks or diamantes or some other type of poem best. The word poets use to describe these different kinds of poems is “form.” A form is kind of poem defined by a set of rules, which might include a certain rhyme scheme, number of lines, syllable count and so on. The truth of the matter is that I don’t normally write in poetic forms, but if I had to pick a favorite, it would either be a funny form like limericks or clerihews, or it would be the acrostic, where the first letters of each line spell out a word or phrase. With Thanksgiving Day (in the United States) coming soon, this week I was putting together a program on how to write “thankful” poems. One example I gave was a simple acrostic on the word “thanks.” I enjoyed that simple example enough that I decided to create a longer acrostic using the word “Thanksgiving,” listing things that you or I might be thankful for on Thanksgiving Day. I hope you enjoy it! Thanksgiving These are things I’m thankful for: Hugs from people I adore. Apple cider. Pumpkin pie. Next-door neighbors dropping by. Kicking balls around the yard. Singing, laughing, playing cards. Glasses clinking for a toast. Ice cream sundaes. Yummy roast. Visitors from out of town. Inside, children running ’round. Napping after food and play. Giving thanks, Thanksgiving Day. — Kenn Nesbitt
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My Time Machine Is Broken
Before we begin, there’s something I haven’t talked about very much. Most people assume I was born in the twentieth century and grew up like everyone else—going to school, learning poetry, all of that. But the truth is a bit more complicated. I’m actually from the year 3017. That’s right—thirty-seventeen. A full millennium in the future. Back home, time travel is fairly common. It’s not something people make a big fuss about, either. It’s more like catching bus. You can take a weekend trip to ancient Egypt, visit your great-great-great-great-grandparents, or hop forward to see how your favorite TV show eventually ends. Most time travelers don’t stay very long in the past, but I’ve always been curious. I wanted to see what life was like a thousand years ago, so I climbed into my trusty time machine and set the dial for the early 2000s. Unfortunately—well, I won’t spoil the poem—but let’s just say things didn’t go exactly as planned. What you’re about to hear is a completely accurate, totally factual account of what happened next. Some people think I wrote it as fiction, but I assure you: every word is true. And yes, time machines in the future are usually more reliable than this. My Time Machine Is Broken I came here from the future in my trusty time machine. I flew almost a thousand years from thirty-seventeen. I thought it would be fun to see the far-off distant past. It never had occurred to me this trip might be my last. But now I’m getting worried. It’s a serious concern. My time machine has broken down so now I can’t return. I traveled too far back in time, which now I quite regret, since time machine repair shops haven’t been invented yet. — Kenn Nesbitt
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Dark Park
It’s the middle of autumn, and the weather is definitely changing. The leaves have mostly fallen from the trees, and it’s been cold and raining for the past few days where I live. I thought I’d write something about this change of seasons—but in a slightly unexpected way. This poem starts out as a simple bike ride through the park, but things take a strange turn once the weather begins to shift. Here is… Dark Park I went for a ride on my bike in the park. Some clouds started forming. It quickly got dark. The rain pounded down as the wind began blowing. The weather turned colder, and soon it was snowing. I shivered and shook as a blizzard was forming, and thunder and lightning were suddenly storming. I tried to escape, but my bike wouldn’t go. The wheels were both frozen and stuck in the snow. I jumped off my bike and ran out of the park. The sky was all sunny, not cloudy and dark. It’s really a puzzle why out here it’s nice, but inside the park it’s all snowbanks and ice. I’ve taken a breath, and I’m counting to ten, preparing myself to go back in again. I might sound insane, like a crazed maniac. I don’t really care, though— I want my bike back. — Kenn Nesbitt
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