Author: Kenn Nesbitt

When I was a kid, I loved books where somebody discovered a hidden world in a place where it absolutely shouldn’t exist. Stories like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Phantom Tollbooth, and later Gregor the Overlander all begin with something ordinary—a rabbit hole, a whirlwind, a tollbooth, a laundry-room grate—that suddenly opens into someplace strange, mysterious, and much bigger than it ought to be. I think those kinds of stories stick with us because they make the world feel more magical. They suggest that adventure might be hiding anywhere if we’re curious enough to go looking for it.

That was the feeling I wanted to capture in “At the Bottom of My Backpack.” Most kids know what it’s like to have a backpack or locker full of mysterious stuff buried at the bottom; old papers, forgotten snacks, missing pencils, and things you could swear weren’t in there yesterday. So I started wondering: what if a backpack wasn’t just messy? What if it was actually impossibly deep? What if it kept going and going like a cave or an underground world?

Once I had that idea, the poem became a kind of adventure story. Mostly, though, I hope this poem encourages readers to imagine that even the most ordinary objects might contain surprises. After all, if a backpack can hide an entire world inside it, who knows what else we’ve been overlooking? This is…

At the Bottom of My Backpack

At the bottom of my backpack,
there’s a spot I cannot see.
It’s not that it’s invisible.
It’s just too deep for me.

It’s underneath my books and lunch
and pens and paper clips,
below some candy wrappers
and an empty bag of chips.

I thought I caught a glimpse of it.
But was it really there?
I stuck my arm down in my pack,
but all I felt was air.

I next unzipped it all the way
and pulled it open wide,
then grabbed my trusty flashlight
as I stuck my head inside.

I still could not quite make it out.
It seemed so far away,
and so I climbed completely in
and crawled around… all day!

I wandered through a forest
made of pencils tall as trees,
then down a homework mountain,
notebooks flapping in the breeze.

It seemed to go on endlessly.
I even met some guy
who said he’d be there decades
but could not remember why.

As things kept getting weirder,
I decided I should leave,
and scampered through a tunnel
like a giant hoodie sleeve.

I crept through tangled charger cords.
I stumbled all about.
I’m still inside my backpack
looking for the way back out.

I never thought that I would find
myself in this position.
I’ve left this note behind to say
please send a rescue mission!

— Kenn Nesbitt

Mother’s Day is always celebrated on the second Sunday in May, and since I usually post new poems on my website on Mondays, I started wondering what kind of poem would make sense to share the day after Mother’s Day. That’s when the title “Mother’s Day Disaster” popped into my head. The idea of everything going hilariously wrong on Mom’s special day made me laugh right away, so I knew I had to write it.

In this poem, the narrator tries hard to make Mother’s Day special, but every good intention somehow turns into a catastrophe instead. From terrible breakfasts to overflowing bubble baths to even bigger disasters, the day quickly spins completely out of control. This is…

Mother’s Day Disaster

Mother’s Day was yesterday.
I’m really glad it’s done.
The day was a disaster
when it should have just been fun.

I picked my mom some flowers
from her garden. She got mad.
The slimy scrambled eggs I made
were sickeningly bad.

The oatmeal in the microwave?
Oh, man, did it explode!
The bubble bath I drew for her?
The bathtub overflowed.

About the time I thought that things
could not get any worse,
I tripped and dumped a pot of coffee
straight into her purse.

The day was such a trainwreck
that I wrote this note to say,
my dad should be concerned because
next month is Father’s Day.

— Kenn Nesbitt

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