Author: Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt. One of my favorite things about writing poems is playing with language—especially when it comes to words or phrases that can mean more than one thing. Sometimes, we use expressions that sound perfectly normal… until you stop and really think about what they say. And when you do, well, they can start to sound pretty silly.

Today’s poem is one of those. It began with a common phrase you’ve probably heard before, and turned into something completely unexpected. Let’s see what happens when everyday language takes a very strange turn. This is…

The Sofa Ate My Father

My dad was on the sofa.
He was watching the TV
when the sofa swiftly swallowed him,
then burped and said, “‘Scuse me.”

I’d never heard the sofa speak,
so that was really weird.
But I was mainly mad because
my father disappeared.

I yelled, “Hey, that’s my dad you ate!
You have to give him back!”
The sofa answered, “Sorry,
but I had to have a snack.

“I didn’t mean to eat your dad.
I know that might seem rude,
but your dad’s a ‘couch potato,’
so I figured he was food.

“I’ll try to be more careful
from now on with what I eat,
and you’ll have him back tomorrow
once he passes through my seat.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

This poem was inspired by another poet I greatly admire—Jack Prelutsky. I had been reading his poem “As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed,” which is a wonderfully silly poem that features underwear. That got me thinking, “Maybe it’s time I wrote an underwear poem too.”

I also remembered another poem Jack wrote years ago called “I’m Growing a Glorious Garden,” where the garden grows musical instruments instead of vegetables. That poem planted a seed in my imagination—what if something even stranger grew in the garden? And that’s when the idea of “The Underwear Tree” came to me.

So I sat down and started imagining a tree that doesn’t grow fruit or flowers, but instead produces all kinds of colorful, comical underpants. And once I started writing, I couldn’t stop giggling.

By the way, if you enjoy poetry about underwear as much as I do, some of my other favorites are Jack Prelutsky’s My Underdog Is Overweight, from It’s Raining Pigs and Noodles, and Karla Kuskin’s A Bug Sat in a Silver Flower, from her book Moon, Have You Met My Mother?

Now, let’s take a walk out to the backyard and see what’s growing on…

The Underwear Tree

Outside, in our garden, you have to come see
the tree that we planted—an underwear tree.
Our underwear tree isn’t like normal plants;
it doesn’t grow fruit, it just grows underpants.

There aren’t any leaves on our underwear tree.
Instead, it grows briefs for my family and me.
It grows tighty-whities and cartoon-print shorts,
and colorful undies of all different sorts.

Some bloomers are blooming, some long johns as well,
but please be aware that they may have a smell.
The clothes on the underwear tree are the type
it’s better to harvest before they turn ripe!

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt. Today’s poem is all about a well-intentioned surprise that doesn’t go quite as planned. With Mother’s Day right around the corner, one young child decides to do something extra special—make breakfast and deliver it to Mom in bed. But sometimes, even the best ideas can turn into a bit of a mess. Stick around for a funny, food-flinging adventure called…

Mother’s Day Breakfast

I brought my mom Mother’s Day breakfast in bed.
I tripped and spilled orange juice right on her head.
She woke with a scream and knocked over the tray.
The coffee dumped out, and it drenched her duvet.

The pancakes went flying and clobbered the cat.
The eggs struck the wall with a sloppy, wet splat!
Our dog started barking and jumping and squealing—
He wanted the sausages stuck to the ceiling.

A whole bowl of cereal spilled on the rug.
Mom giggled and grabbed me and gave me a hug.
She told me, “I love you, so don’t be upset.
This breakfast is one I will never forget.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

One of the things that I enjoy most about writing poems is playing with words—especially when a word sounds like something else entirely. Today’s poem is one of those where the idea came from imagining a mix-up… the kind of mix-up that might happen if you were shopping for something high-tech and got something completely unexpected instead. This is…

My Smelly Telephone

My telephone is smelly.
It’s a smelly telephone.
I wish it didn’t stink but
it’s the only one I own.

I thought I bought a smartphone
that was also cellular.
It seems that’s not exactly what
they meant by “smellular.”

And so, I learned the hard way
what I didn’t know before…
They don’t sell normal cellphones
when you’re at the smellphone store.

— Kenn Nesbitt