Poetry for Kids

With Halloween just around the corner, I decided it was time to write a new Halloween poem. Or maybe a monster poem. But then I thought, why not write both?

Of course, there are plenty of poems about monsters being scary, chasing people, or lurking in dark places. But I wanted to do something a little different. I started wondering what monsters might do for fun when they’re not busy frightening everybody.

That’s when I imagined a group of famous monsters getting together at a haunted house for a friendly game night. After all, even Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Wolfman probably enjoy playing games with their friends now and then.

But what kinds of games would monsters play? Would they play the same games we do, or would they have their own spooky versions? Once I started thinking about that, I came up with all sorts of silly possibilities, and the poem practically wrote itself.

The result is a poem called “Game Night at the Haunted House.” It’s about a group of monsters having a wonderful time playing some rather unusual games. And, as you’ll discover, they’re always happy to welcome new players.

At least, that’s what they say.

Game Night at the Haunted House

It’s Game Night at the Haunted House

on Halloween this year.

The Wolfman, Mummy, Frankenstein,

and Dracula are here.

They’ve played a game of Duck, Duck, Ghost,

Brain Toss, and Tic-Tac-Boo,

plus Monster Polo, Slime-on Says,

and Dead Light, Green Light too.

They had such fun with Hide-and-Shriek,

and playing Truth-or-Scare,

but all the monsters hope that, next year,

you can join them there.

They say that you should come and play.

They’ll try their best to beat you.

So join them at the Haunted House.

They promise not to eat you.

— Kenn Nesbitt

When I was a kid, I had lots of toys, including toy cars, trucks, and airplanes. I loved imagining that they could go on incredible adventures, racing down highways, flying through the clouds, or speeding away from bad guys in daring escapes.

I also had quite a few pets growing up. Over the years, my family had cats and dogs, a parakeet, an aquarium full of fish, and even a snake! But there’s one pet I never had: a hamster.

That got me wondering what might happen if I combined two things I loved as a kid: pets and toy vehicles. What if a hamster got hold of a whole collection of toy cars, boats, and airplanes? What would he do with them? And why would a tiny little hamster need so many different ways to get around?

I started imagining a hamster with some pretty fancy transportation, including a monster truck, a limousine, a submarine, and even a hovercraft. Before long, I had a poem about a very unusual pet with a mysterious collection of vehicles. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

My Hamster Has a Hovercraft

My hamster has a hovercraft.

I couldn’t tell you why.

I think he’s on a secret mission.

Maybe he’s a spy.

He also has a monster truck,

a long black limousine,

a motorcycle, speedboat,

and a snazzy submarine.

He has a helicopter

and a supersonic jet,

a Lambo, a Ferrari,

and a cherry-red Corvette.

His cage contains a hamster wheel

he uses every day,

but when he saw my toys,

he snatched them up and ran away.

It seems he doesn’t need to be

the fastest pet alive.

He’s just so tired of exercise,

he’s learning how to drive.

— Kenn Nesbitt

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