Category: Podcast

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

Most of the time, when I write a poem, the idea sneaks up on me. It might come from something I see, something I hear, or just a silly thought that pops into my head and refuses to leave. But every now and then, I get a very specific assignment.

That’s what happened with this poem. An editor at Storyworks 4–6, a magazine for students in grades four through six, asked me to write about a kid who tries to do something nice for their mom’s birthday, and tries to do it perfectly, but ends up with hilariously disastrous results.

Now, if you’ve ever tried to cook or bake something on your own, you might already know that things don’t always go according to plan. Sometimes you forget an ingredient. Sometimes you add the wrong one. And sometimes… well… sometimes your cake ends up looking a lot more like meatloaf.

As I was writing this poem, I had a lot of fun imagining just how wrong things could go in the kitchen, and how the character might keep going anyway, trying their best to make something special.

This poem was originally published in the February 2026 issue of Storyworks 4–6. I hope it makes you laugh, and maybe even reminds you that sometimes the love that goes into what we do is more important than a perfect result. This is…

The Perfect Cake

Today’s my mother’s birthday.
She’s a connoisseur of cakes.
I tried to bake a masterpiece
but made a few mistakes.

I couldn’t find the flour,
so I stirred in mashed potatoes,
then turned it red as roses
by including stewed tomatoes.

I knew that eggs were needed,
but is seventeen too many?
We had no milk or butter,
so I couldn’t put in any.

The sugar was the weirdest part;
it tasted just like salt!
Her “cake” came out like meatloaf,
which was clearly all my fault.

Mom said, “This cake is perfect
and you’ve totally succeeded!
You made it with a lot of love,
and that is all I needed.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

With St. Patrick’s Day coming up, I thought it might be fun to write a poem about the holiday. Over the years I’ve written a number of poems about wearing green clothing on March 17th, because green is the color most people associate with St. Patrick’s Day. As it happens, green is also my favorite color.

But while I was thinking about the holiday, I began to wonder what it might be like if someone didn’t like green at all. What if they actually disliked it? And what if that someone was expected to wear green every day—like a leprechaun?

That’s where the idea for Larry the Leprechaun came from. Larry refuses to wear green, even though everyone tells him he has to. When I started writing the poem, I knew Larry didn’t like green, but I didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

About halfway through writing the poem, I suddenly realized that if Larry didn’t want to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, maybe he could celebrate a holiday named after another famous saint instead. I hope you enjoy it. This is…

Larry the Leprechaun

Larry the Leprechaun didn’t like green.
He cried, “It’s the worst color I’ve ever seen!
It might be okay for a bush or a tree,
but green is a color you won’t find on me.

“I’m not fond of olive, or forest, or lime.
I don’t like chartreuse, neon, clover, or thyme.
I shudder at shamrock and juniper too.
But I’m not allowed to wear purple or blue.

“They tell me I have to wear green every day,
and shouldn’t wear orange, magenta, or gray.
Well, sorry, I have to be true to myself.
A leprechaun’s more than some silly green elf.

“And that’s why, regardless of what people say,
I no longer celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day.
From now on, I’m dressing in pink, white, and red
to celebrate Saint Valentine’s Day instead.”

— Kenn Nesbitt

When I was a kid, I often imagined what it would be like to have superpowers. But the powers I dreamed about weren’t the usual ones you see in comic books. I didn’t spend much time imagining myself flying through the air or lifting cars over my head. Instead, I wondered what it would be like if I could stop time, or magically change things around me.

For example, what if you could make something disappear just by wishing it away? What if you could erase mistakes, not just on paper, but in real life? That was the idea that eventually led me to write this poem.

One day I started thinking about those pink school erasers that everyone used when I was growing up. They were great for fixing pencil mistakes, but they also left those little curly crumbs all over your desk. And that got me wondering: what if someone invented a super eraser; one that could erase anything at all?

Of course, if a kid had something like that, they probably wouldn’t start by erasing very important things. They’d begin with the stuff kids usually wish they could get rid of: vegetables they don’t like, homework, rainy days, maybe even Monday mornings.

But if you had a magical eraser that powerful, it might be easy to get carried away… and erase a little more than you meant to.

I hope you enjoy it. This is…

Super Eraser

I bought a new “Super Eraser” today.
They said it would make all mistakes go away.
It seemed quite unlikely and, honestly, weird,
but—swipe!—and my Brussels sprouts just disappeared.

I blasted my math with another small swipe.
My bedtime went poof! when I gave it a wipe.
This thing was amazing! I grinned ear-to-ear,
then looked for more things I could make disappear.

I zapped Monday mornings. Trombone lessons too.
I rubbed on the rain and away it all flew.
I made homework vanish. It melted away.
I wiped away chores and left nothing but play.

This Super Eraser was perfect for me,
and something I figured my family should see.
I ran to the backyard to put on a show.
That’s strange. They were just here a minute ago.

 — Kenn Nesbitt

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