Category: Podcast

Kids often ask me to write a poem about their favorite sport. Just as often, they ask me what my favorite sport is. That got me thinking… do I really have just one?

Instead of choosing a single sport, I decided to imagine a kid who loves all of them. A sports fanatic! Someone who gets excited about baseball and soccer and surfing and skiing and everything in between. The result is this poem, a big, energetic list of games, races, matches, and adventures.

This kind of poem is called a list poem, because it’s built from a list of related words or ideas. List poems are a lot of fun to write. You don’t have to tell a big story. You just pick a topic—sports, foods, animals, hobbies, anything—and start listing! If you’d like to try writing your own list poem, here is a simple, step-by-step lesson that can help you get started.

As for me, I have to admit something: if I did choose just one sport, I think rugby might be the coolest in the world. It’s fast, tough, and exciting to watch. It’s hugely popular in places like New Zealand, South Africa, and parts of Europe, though it isn’t played quite as much here in the United States, where I live.

But that’s enough about me. How about you? What’s your favorite sport? Is there just one… or do you like sports of every sort?

My Favorite Sport

Want to know my favorite sport?
Here’s my list (it’s pretty short):

Baseball, football, soccer, kickball.
Table tennis, sailing, stickball.
Surfing, swimming, sprinting, hiking.
Rugby, running, bowling, biking.
Skating, sledding, cricket, curling.
Dancing, dodgeball, hockey, hurling.
Paddle boarding, rafting, rowing.
Horseback riding, hammer throwing.
Handball, softball, skiing, cheering.
Volleyball and mountaineering.

I don’t have ONE favorite sport.
I like sports of every sort!

— Kenn Nesbitt

Have you ever seen a shape in the dark but couldn’t quite make out what it was? Maybe you caught something out of the corner of your eye—a shadow, a lump, a blur—and for just a second your imagination ran wild.

This time of year, even though the days are starting to get a little longer, it’s still winter. It’s still the darkest season. The sun rises late. The evenings stretch on. And when the light is low, ordinary things can look… not so ordinary.

Just this morning, I glanced across the room and thought I saw a black cat sitting perfectly still. On second look, it turned out to be a wastebasket. I’ve done that more than once; seen something indistinct and, before my brain could catch up, imagined all sorts of ominous possibilities.

So I decided to write a poem about that feeling. About spotting something you can’t quite identify… something that seems to move when you move… something that stays just out of sight. When you don’t know what you’re looking at, your imagination is happy to fill in the blanks, and it doesn’t always choose the most comforting answer. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

It Followed Me to School Today

It followed me to school today.
I’m not sure what it was,
though it sounded soft and scratchy,
like a chunk of rusty fuzz.

I couldn’t see it clearly.
It remained just out of sight
as it slunk along in shadows
and retreated from the light.

I started walking faster.
I could smell it. It was foul.
Then it slithered even quicker
and I may have heard it growl.

I felt a rush of panic, thinking
I might not escape.
So I bolted down the block, but still
could not outrun that shape.

At last, I stumbled into school.
I thought I got away,
but it wriggled underneath a bush
and waited there all day.

It followed me back home from school.
It’s now outside my room.
I’m supposed to go to bed, but there’s
this looming sense of doom.

I’d better go tell mom and dad.
They’ll want to hear this warning:
I’ll be staying home tomorrow
if it’s still there in the morning.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Sometimes poems don’t begin at a desk. They begin when you’re half asleep.

One night, just as I was drifting off, a ridiculous thought popped into my head: a dancing dinosaur in purple underwear. I have no idea where it came from. I wasn’t thinking about dinosaurs. I wasn’t thinking about underwear. But there it was.

And it made me laugh.

So instead of rolling over and going to sleep, I did what poets sometimes have to do. I grabbed my phone in the dark and typed a quick note so I wouldn’t forget it in the morning.

Then… I forgot about it anyway.

Well, not completely. The idea sat in my “poem ideas” folder for months. Every once in a while I’d scroll past it and think, “Hmm. A dancing dinosaur in purple underwear. That’s funny.” But I didn’t know what kind of poem it wanted to be.

About six months later, I looked at it again and started playing around with questions. Have you ever been here? Have you ever been there? And most importantly, have you seen a dancing dinosaur in purple underwear?

Once I found that rhythm of questions, the poem practically wrote itself.

This is one of those silly poems that exists for one very important reason: because sometimes an unexpected, ridiculous idea is enough to make you smile. And sometimes that’s all a poem needs to do.

Have You Ever Been to England?

Have you ever been to England?
Have you ever been to France?
Have you seen a dancing dinosaur
in purple underpants?

Have you visited St. Louis?
Have you visited St. Clair?
Did you see a dancing dinosaur
in purple underwear?

Have you traveled through the jungles?
Have you been to beach resorts?
Have you found a dancing dinosaur
in purple undershorts?

Have you trekked across the deserts?
Have you trudged across the snows?
Were there any dancing dinosaurs
in purple underclothes?

I suppose you haven’t seen one yet
but if you ever do,
then please tell me where you spotted it
so I can see one too.

— Kenn Nesbitt

I wrote this poem because Valentine’s Day was coming up, and I wanted a silly love poem that felt a little different from the usual ones. I played around with a few ideas first—like a teacher being in love with homework and quizzes, or my cat falling in love with my dog—but none of them quite clicked. Then I started thinking about how some people, especially teenagers, spend a lot of time checking their reflection, and it made me laugh to imagine what that might look like from a sibling’s point of view. Once I had that idea, the poem pretty much wrote itself. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

My Brother’s in Love with His Mirror

My brother is falling in love with his mirror.
At first, I had doubts. Now, it couldn’t be clearer.
He spent today gazing upon his reflection
while whispering words of romantic affection.

He straightened his hair and put on his best shirt,
then said, “Hey, good lookin’,” like some kind of flirt.
He waved at himself as he batted his eyes
then tilted his head and let out a few sighs.

My brother’s behavior is honestly odd.
He smiled at himself with a wink and a nod,
then blew a few kisses and started to blush.
The mirror is clearly my brother’s new crush.

I didn’t know why he was acting this way
when I saw him eyeing his mirror today.
I figured it out, though—it wasn’t that hard—
when I saw him give it a Valentine’s card.

— Kenn Nesbitt

I’ve always loved wordplay, especially poems that play around with the nuts and bolts of language, things like spelling, word order, and the way words look and sound on the page. Over the years, I’ve written poems that make silly use of parentheses, hyphens, and even the spacing between words, just to see what kind of mischief I could get into.

While I was thinking about other punctuation marks I might work into a poem someday—commas, question marks, slashes, brackets, and so on—it suddenly occurred to me that I’d somehow skipped the most obvious one of all. Exclamation points! They’re loud, they’re enthusiastic, and they have a way of making everything feel more exciting… sometimes a little too exciting.

This poem imagines what might happen if someone got just a bit carried away with exclamation points. And fair warning—this is one of those poems that really needs to be seen on the page to make sense, since the punctuation is doing most of the heavy lifting. So if it sounds a little strange out loud, that’s on me! You can read the poem exactly as it was meant to be seen online at Poetry4kids.

I’m Thrilled with Exclamation Points!

I’m thrilled with exclamation points!
I like them so, so much!
It’s awesome how they give my words
that extra special touch!!

Without some exclamation points
my words seem dull and dry.
But add a few!! Now, suddenly,
the writing starts to fly!!!!!

I wonder if it’s possible
to use them even more!!
like! every! word! could! end! with! one!
or! two!! or! three!!! or! four!!!!

Oh!! yes!!! it’s!! so!!! enjoyable!!!!
Instead!! of!! now!! and!!! then!!
I’ll!! add!!! a! few!!!! to!! every! word!!,
like! eight!!!!!!!! or! nine!!!!!!!!! or! ten!!!!!!!!!!

I’d!!! stay!!!! and!!!! tell!!! you!!! more!!!, except!!
I!!!!! have!! to!! leave!!! this!!!! joint!!!!
Besides!!!, I!!! think! it’s!!!! safe!! to!!!!! say!!
by!!! now!!!! you’ve!!!! got!!! my!!!! point!!!!

— Kenn Nesbitt

Before I decide what to wear, I often check the weather on my phone. How cold is it outside? Is it going to rain? Will it warm up later in the day? My wife thinks this is a little ridiculous and says I should just look out the window. Or better yet, step outside and see how it feels. But I like knowing what’s coming. A weather app can tell you if you’re going to need a coat, a hat, or an umbrella later on, even if things look fine right now.

One day, while I was thinking about checking the weather online, a funny idea popped into my head, an idea that felt like it belonged at the end of a poem. As often happens for me, I wrote that ending first and then worked backward, figuring out what kind of poem would lead naturally to it.

This poem grew out of that process, mixing everyday habits with a little imagination and wordplay. I hope it makes you smile, and maybe even think twice about how you decide what the weather’s like before you head outside. This is…

Warm or Storm?

I think I’ll stay inside today.
In here, it’s nice and warm.
Outside, I’m told it’s frozen.
There’s a frigid winter storm.

I heard that there’s a blizzard
with a ton of ice and snow.
Thermometers are saying that
it’s twenty-five below.

That’s way too cold to snowboard,
or to ski, or skate, or sled.
The news said, “Stay inside today
and bundle up in bed.”

I could have gone outside to see
how chilly it would get.
But I just looked online
and read it on the Winternet.

— Kenn Nesbitt

I love cheese, pretty much all kinds of it. A few months ago, I even decided to try making my own cheese for the very first time. I started with cottage cheese, which seemed like a sensible beginner’s choice. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out quite as well as I’d hoped. Still, I really enjoyed the process, and I’m planning to give cheesemaking another try soon.

Today, while I was eating a slice of Swiss cheese and thinking about that not-so-successful experiment, my mind started wandering. I began imagining a cheesemaker who’s a very choosy about his ingredients, and before long, the idea for this poem popped into my head.

Sometimes all it takes is one small thought, and one very silly pun, to turn into a poem. That’s exactly what happened here. This is…

A Cheesy Story

I’m Cheesemaker Charlie.
I like to make cheese.
I’m fond of ricottas,
and cheddars, and bries.

Each cheese I prepare
needs its own kind of milk,
to make sure it’s creamy
and smoother than silk.

For string cheese, to help it
stay slender and slim,
I only use milk that’s been
labeled as “skim.”

I try to ensure that
my jack cheese is jacked.
I help it stay shredded
with “low fat,” in fact.

And when I make Swiss cheese,
perfection’s my goal.
So, that’s why I only
use milk labeled “hole.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

I’ve always loved performing. When I was a kid, I once put on a magic show for my family when I was seven years old. I even rented a cape and a top hat for the occasion. Unfortunately, the show didn’t go very well. Everyone kept shouting out how the tricks were done, which made it hard to feel very mysterious.

Still, that love of performing stuck with me. One of the reasons I fell in love with poetry in the first place was because my father used to sing silly songs and recite nonsense poems at home. Watching him perform made me realize how much fun words can be when you say them out loud.

Because of that, I love writing poems about performing, whether it’s singing, karaoke, student talent shows, or just putting on a show for anyone who happens to be nearby. That idea is what inspired this poem. I hope it makes you smile. This is…

Toothbrush Karaoke

While brushing my teeth after breakfast today,
I looked at my toothbrush and, what can I say?
It looked like a microphone there in my hand.
I thought of a song from my new favorite band.

I strolled to the living room singing that song.
My brother, surprised, started clapping along.
My sister stood up and applauded my tune.
She begged me to keep singing all afternoon.

I ran to my room where I sang to my frog.
My singing and dancing delighted our dog.
I chanted and rapped as I ran down the hall,
to croon to the mirror we had on the wall.

And that’s when my mom and dad walked in the door,
complaining of slobber all over the floor.
They said my performance was totally cool,
except for the minty-fresh puddles of drool.

— Kenn Nesbitt

When my kids were in elementary school, they loved taking rules very literally. If I told my son not to touch his sister, he would immediately find the exact spot where he could stand as close as possible without actually touching her, and think it was hilarious. Technically, he was following the rule, even if he was clearly missing the spirit of it.

That kind of literal thinking has always made me laugh, especially when it comes to rules at school. Kids hear a rule, take it at face value, and then use a lot of creativity to follow it exactly, sometimes in ways adults never expected. It’s not about breaking the rules; it’s about finding all the tiny spaces around them.

I realized there might be a poem hiding in that idea, especially if the rule was followed with complete sincerity… and a whole lot of imagination. That’s where this poem came from.

I hope it makes you smile, especially if you’ve ever known a kid who was very good at following rules, just not quite the way they were intended. This is…

No Running in the Hall

They said, “No running in the hall,”
and so I didn’t run at all.
They didn’t say, “Don’t skip and prance.”
They didn’t say, “Don’t disco dance.”

And so, you may have seen me hop,
or spiral like a spinning top,
or zig and zag from side to side,
or spread my arms to fly and glide.

I might have marched. I might have stomped.
I might have wriggled, rolled, and romped.
I might have done a funky strut.
I might have wagged my you-know-what.

I might have slid across the floor,
or maybe moonwalked through a door,
or got down on my knees to crawl.
But, hey, I didn’t run at all.

— Kenn Nesbitt

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