Author: Kenn Nesbitt

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

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

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