Category: Podcast

Sometimes the silliest ideas make for the funniest poems. This one started with a simple question: What if someone was really, really good at burping? I mean unbelievably good. That idea made me laugh, so I knew I had to run with it. The result is a poem that plays with repetition, exaggeration, and a little bit of mischief—just the kind of humor that makes poetry extra fun. I hope you enjoy meeting one of the world’s most talented burpers… even if not everyone in her family appreciates her skills. This is…

Bernadette the Burper

Bernadette the burper
is the greatest in the land.
She so adept at burping
she can do it on command.

There’s never been a burper
quite as skilled as Bernadette.
She’ll burp the Happy Birthday song,
and then the alphabet.

She’ll burp the periodic table
and the fifty states.
She’ll burp the works of Shakespeare,
Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Yeats.

But every time she burps a burp
it drives her father wild.
He says they’re inappropriate
and unfit for a child.

He says she shouldn’t ever burp.
He tells her that it’s rude.
He says that burping’s impolite,
disgusting, gross, and crude.

So Bernadette agreed to stop
and held them in all day.
Her father changed his mind
when they came out the other way.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

Have you ever found something unexpected—a hidden passage, a strange map, or a place no one else seemed to know about? Did you then keep it a secret too, or was it too good not to share?

This poem is all about discovering a secret place and exploring the unknown. It also uses repetition to build a rhythm and to heighten the sense of mystery. As you read it, see if you can feel the excitement of the narrator’s journey and maybe imagine where your own secret passageway might be hiding and where it might lead. This is…

I Found a Secret Passageway

I found a secret passageway
behind a secret door,
inside a secret closet that
I’d never seen before.

I tiptoed through that secret door
and down that secret hall
to find a secret room behind
a secret sliding wall.

And in that secret room there sat
a secret pirate’s chest
that held a secret map that led me
on a secret quest.

I traveled down the secret path
upon that secret map,
but tripped a secret switch and fell
inside a secret trap.

I felt around that secret trap
and grabbed a secret latch
that turned a secret handle
and unlocked a secret hatch.

A secret tunnel took me through
a secret catacomb,
then up a secret stairway where
I found myself back home.

I might have found some secret gold
beyond that secret door…
I’d tell you, but it wouldn’t
be a secret anymore.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt

I thought of the idea for this poem while I was out on a brisk walk one day, feeling unusually full of energy. That got me thinking about how some kids just seem to have endless energy—always moving, always playing, always going. I began imagining what it would be like to be one of those kids, and from there the idea for “Hyper Nate” was born.

This poem is all about motion and excitement and the joy of being active. It has a bouncy rhythm and lots of extra rhymes to match the character’s boundless energy, and of course I had to add a little twist at the end. I hope you have just as much fun listening to it as I did writing it! This is…

Hyper Nate

My name is Nate. My normal state
is one of being hyper.
I’ve been a wild and active child
since I was in a diaper.

You’d be surprised how energized
a kid like me can be.
It’s tons of fun to run and run.
I’m filled with energy.

I’m called “live wire,” and “ball of fire,”
and “human dynamo.”
I love to skip and dash and zip.
I go, go, go, go, go!

I charge and chase and rush and race
until my hyper state
gets so extreme I lose my steam,
and then I hibernate.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

I’ve always enjoyed writing poems about characters who are a little… well… less than excellent at what they do. There’s something especially funny about someone who tries their best but still manages to get everything hilariously wrong. Over the years, I’ve written about a pirate who’s never seen the sea, a scientist who searches for things that don’t exist, an old west bank robber who always fumbles the loot, and many more kooky characters.

This time, I thought it would be fun to take on the classic mystery genre, but with a detective who isn’t exactly solving any mysteries. This is her story and I hope you enjoy it!

Annette the Detective

Annette the Detective is bad at detecting.
She’s crummy at hunting for clues and inspecting.
She can’t catch the bad guys or solve any cases
by following footprints or studying faces.

She doesn’t spot obvious, telltale signs.
She can’t point out patterns or notice designs.
She has no suspicions, not even a hunch.
She’s slow on the uptake (except for her lunch).

She’s bad with disguises, like costumes and masks.
She messes up even the easiest tasks.
She bungled the case of the neighbor’s lost cat.
(The cat was asleep in her Sherlock Holmes hat.)

The criminals cheer when Annette’s on the case.
They know she won’t catch them or even give chase.
If you need a crime solved, it’s better if you
don’t work with Annette—she does not have a clue.

— 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

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

Sometimes a poem begins with just a sound—two words that almost rhyme, or a funny phrase that gets stuck in my head. That’s what happened with today’s poem. I started playing with the sounds of two familiar words, and before long, I found myself wondering, “What if there were a place where people celebrated one of these things instead of the other?” Though the result may seem a little bizarre, I had so much fun writing it that I just had to share it. This is…

An Oyster Celebration.

There’s an Oyster celebration
every year in Oyster Bay,
when the Oyster Bunny brings
his Oyster eggs on Oyster Day.

They put their Oyster clothes on,
Oyster morning, getting dressed
in their brand-new Oyster bonnets
and their Oyster Sunday best.

They watch the Oyster Day parade
go marching through the streets,
and enjoy their Oyster baskets
filled with tasty Oyster treats.

They listen to the Oyster sermon
given by the priest,
then they have an Oyster egg hunt
and prepare their Oyster feast.

It might seem odd to you and me,
but this is just the way
that they celebrate on Oyster Island
every Oyster Day.

— Kenn Nesbitt

Welcome to Poetry4kids. I’m Kenn Nesbitt.

The seasons are changing, and it feels like winter is finally over—but spring hasn’t really started yet. Where my sister lives, people like to say they have only three seasons: summer, winter, and mud. I always thought that was a funny way to describe this in-between time of year, when the snow is melting, the ground is wet and messy, and everything turns to sludge.

So I decided to write a poem celebrating the muddy, splashy, sock-soaking season that comes right before the flowers bloom and the trees start to bud. For kids who love jumping in puddles and getting a little dirty, it might just be the best season of all!

Splash!

The snow is gone.
Outside I dash.
I jump up high
and then I SPLASH!

A spray of sludge
goes everywhere.
It cakes my clothes
and hands and hair.

I stomp around
in mucky ooze.
It soaks my socks.
It fills my shoes.

It’s such an awesome
time of year
before the signs
of spring appear.

Before new leaves
and flowers bud,
we have my favorite season:
MUD!

— Kenn Nesbitt