Category: Podcast

The word “hot dog” is a is an interesting one with several different meanings. Most commonly, it is another word for a frankfurter or wiener. Frankfurter, by the way, means “from Frankfurt.” Frankfurt is a city in Germany. Similarly, wiener means “from Vienna.” Vienna is a city in Austria. So, the words frankfurter and wiener are short for Frankfurt sausage and Vienna sausage.

But “hot dog” also has other meanings. You can describe an athlete – especially a surfer or skier – who is a bit of a show-off as a hot dog.

By the late 1800s, the word “hot dog,” in addition to meaning a frankfurter, also became a slang expression that people used to show they were excited. In other words, saying “hot dog!” means the same thing as saying “oh boy!” or “excellent!” Not too long after that, in the 1920’s, the phase was extended as “hot diggity dog” as a way of showing even more excitement.

When I heard this phrase recently, it occurred to me that dogs often like to dig holes in the garden or lawn, and that all that digging might cause them to get pretty hot, which is where the idea for this poem came from.

My Dog Likes to Dig

My dog likes to dig, making holes in our lawn.
He digs every morning beginning at dawn.
He digs like a maniac all afternoon,
and even at night by the light of the moon.

I wish he would stop but he’s out of control,
and works up a sweat digging hole after hole.
He’s fevered and frenzied. He’s hot as can be.
His temperature’s rising degree by degree.

His workout from digging is clearly extreme.
He’s sizzling. He’s scorching. He’s starting to steam.
I wish I had gotten a fish or a frog.
Instead I just have this hot diggity dog.

I love a good joke and I love a good limerick. This poem isn’t quite a limerick because the first line doesn’t rhyme with the second and fifth lines, but it’s close; it has the same rhythm and length, and almost the same rhyme scheme. So, it’s almost a limerick.

And it’s also a pretty good joke, if I do say so myself. At a recent school visit, I recited this poem to a group of third and fifth graders. The fifth graders all got it right away. It took some of the third graders a minute, but once they got it, they all laughed.

If you’re in third grade or younger and you don’t get the joke, feel free to ask a parent or older sibling to explain it. Once you get the joke, I think you’ll laugh too.

By the way, if you like this poem, I think you’ll also like my poems “I Miss My Sister” and “My Teacher Ate My Homework,” which have similarly surprising endings.

I Washed Our Dad’s Car

I washed our dad’s car with my sister,
to clean off the grime and the grunge.
My sister got mad and
complained to our dad and
asked, “Why can’t he just use a sponge?”

—Kenn Nesbitt

When I was in elementary school, I spent a lot of time learning to make silly faces and strange voices.

I taught myself how to wiggle my ears, raise one eyebrow at a time, and pucker my lips like a fish.

I learned how to talk like Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse and Dracula. I practiced purring and meowing to my cat. I even learned how to burp whenever I want.

About ten years ago, I even wrote an entire poem, called “My Excellent Education,” about all these crazy things I learned in school (even thought they weren’t what I was supposed to be studying). In fact, “My Excellent Education” is one of the few poems I’ve written that is almost entirely true.

Today’s poem, “I’ve Started Learning Honkish,” is specifically about the kinds of noises I liked to make–mooing, honking, burping, and so on—plus a bunch more that I just made up.

I even gave them names. I mean, if Spanish is what they speak in Spain, Norwegian is what they speak in Norway, and Chinese is what they speak in China, why can’t you speak Burpish, Snorwegian, and Garglese?

If you like this poem, why not see if you can invent a few new languages from the crazy sounds you can make and maybe even add a stanza or two of your own to this poem?

I’ve Started Learning Honkish

I’ve started learning Honkish.
It’s my favorite language now.
I’m also learning Mooish.
I can speak just like a cow.

I’m learning Chirpish, Burpish,
Beepish, yes, and Sneezanese,
and a dialect of Buzzish
so I sound just like the bees.

My dad taught me Snorwegian,
plus some Ancient Garglese,
and I’m fluent in a dozen other
languages like these.

I’m something of prodigy
where language is concerned,
except for ones the language teacher
says I should have learned.

She tried to teach me Spanish,
French, and German, but I’m lazy.
And, anyway, I’d rather learn
the ones that drive her crazy.

—Kenn Nesbitt

List poems can be so much fun to write. All you need is a beginning and an end, and then you can make a list in the middle as long or as short as you like. Shel Silverstein’s poem “Sick” and Jack Prelustky’s “Bleezer’s Ice Cream” are a couple of classic examples of list poems. I have also written quite a few list poems, including “The Games in My Room,” “Advice from Dracula,” and “My Mother Said to Do My Chores.”

While most of my poems are humorous, this one, called “Mammals,” isn’t meant to be funny. I just wanted to create a list of different mammals to show how varied they are, and yet what they mostly have in common. You might even find a few mammals you haven’t heard of on this list, such as the numbat (an endangered marsupial that eats nothing but termites), the kob (a kind of antelope), or the echidna (a spiny anteater).

You might also notice that, in addition to being a list poem, this poem also includes a fair bit of alliteration; words that start with the same consonant sounds. This is intentional, as I think it makes the poem more fun to read or listen to.

If you would like to learn how to create your own list poems, I even have a poetry-writing lesson called “How to Write a List Poem” on poetry4kids, and another one to show how to create a poem from a list of your favorite things. I have also created a number of lists of rhyming words—such as rhyming foods, rhyming sports, and rhyming animals—that may come in handy for your list poems.

But, of course, you don’t have to write your own list poems to enjoy reading or listening to them. I hope you enjoy this one.

Mammals

Celebrate the wondrous mammal:
Bison, beaver, cheetah, camel,
panther, panda, pygmy shrew,
chimpanzee, and caribou,
weasel, wolf, raccoon, and rat,
badger, bandicoot, and bat,
rhino, reindeer, rabbit, ram,
llama, leopard, lion, lamb,
elk, echidna, hamster, hog,
marmot, meerkat, dolphin, dog,
lemur, lemming, bobcat, bear,
walrus, wombat, hippo, hare,
kob, koala, kangaroo,
naked mole rat, numbat, gnu,
aardvark, ape, orangutan,
mongoose, manatee, and man.
These and more are in the family,
furry, four-limbed, warm, and mammally.

—Kenn Nesbitt

I recently added a lesson to poetry4kids showing different ways write a poem using repetition. You can repeat entire stanzas, creating a chorus or refrain in the poem. You can repeat lines, as Robert Frost famously did at the end of “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” or as Dylan Thomas did in “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

When you repeat the first words of each line, what you end up with is not only a repetition poem, but a list poem as well. For example, my poem “I’ll Never,” repeats those words at the beginning of nearly every line of the poem, forming a list of all the things I’ll never do.

In my first book, The Aliens Have Landed at Our School!, I included a few repetition poems, such as “Don’t Rat on a Mouse” and “How Not to Play with Your Food.” Here’s another repetition/list poem from that book about all the things it’s okay to forget in school, and the one thing it’s very important to remember.

What to Remember in School

Forget that two times four is eight.
Forget the name of every state.
Forget the answers on the test.
Forget which way is east and west.
Forget the myths of ancient Rome.
Forget to bring your books from home.
Forget the words you learned to spell.
Forget to hear the recess bell.
Forget your homeroom teacher’s name.
Forget the after-school game.
Forget which team’s supposed to win.
Forget to turn your homework in.
Forget the distance to the moon.
Forget how many days in June.
Forget the capitol of France.
But DON’T forget to wear your pants!

—Kenn Nesbitt

Some people love puns, while others hate them with a passion. People who don’t like puns often call them “groaners” because they groan when they hear them.

Personally, I love a good pun. My friend, the poet Jack Pretlutsky once told me he thinks a good pun is one that you can be equally proud of and ashamed of at the same time. His favorite of his own puns was from the last line of his pun-filled poem “We’re Fearless Flying Hot Dogs” from his book Something Big Has Been Here.

Sometimes a pun poem is full of puns from beginning to end as in my poems “What a Ham” or “My Hare Is Resting on My Head.” Others are just a setup for a single zinger of a pun at the end.

This poem, Bob’s Job, is a list poem, meaning that it has a list of items, actions, or something else in it. In this case, the poem includes a list of soda pop brands such as Coca Cola and Mountain Dew.

But honestly, I wrote this entire poem just so I could get to the pun at the end. I hope it doesn’t make you groan too hard.

Bob’s Job

My name is Bob. I have a job.
My job is crushing cans,
like Coca Cola, 7Up,
and lots of other brands.

I flatten cans from Mr. Pibb,
and Dr. Pepper too,
Sierra Mist, and RC Cola,
Sprite, and Mountain Dew.

I whack them with a hammer or
I beat them with a bat,
to pound the Pepsi, squash the Squirt,
and press the Fresca flat.

It’s good to have a job to do,
though sometimes it’s distressing.
I try to keep my chin up,
but my job is soda pressing.

—Kenn Nesbitt

I often feel that summer is the best of all seasons, especially when you’re in school for the rest of the year. In the summertime, you don’t usually have to go to school. Instead you can swim, play in the park, or even just stay home and play games instead of doing homework.

I have written several poems about how much I like summer, including this one from my book When the Teacher Isn’t Looking.

If you like this poem, I recommend you also read my poems “Dreaming of Summer” from my book My Hippo Has the Hiccups and “Dear Summer” from My Cat Knows Karate.

I Can’t Wait for Summer

I can’t wait for summer, when school days are done,
to spend the days playing outside in the sun.
I won’t have to study. No homework, no tests.
Just afternoons spent on adventures and quests.
Instead of mathematics and writing reports,
I’ll go to the park and play summertime sports.
Instead of assignments, report cards, and grades,
I’ll get to play baseball and watch the parades.
I’ll swing on the playground. I’ll swim in the pool
instead of just practicing lessons in school.
The second the school year is finally done
I’ll spend every minute with friends having fun.
I hardly can wait for the end of the year.
I’m counting the days until summer is here.
It’s hard to be patient. It’s hard to be cool.
It’s hard to believe it’s the first day of school.

— Kenn Nesbitt

From my book Revenge of the Lunch Ladies, this is either a story of a science experiment gone very, very wrong, or it is an elaborate excuse for not turning in your homework. Or possibly both.

It is also a long way to go for a groaner of an ending, but I had so much fun writing it that I just couldn’t help myself.

Lastly, this is also a good example of using onomatopoeia—words that sound like the actions they describe—in a poem. Words like “burble,” “slither,” and “gobble” all evoke sounds as well as visual descriptions. I used these intentionally to heighten the sensory impact of the poem and make it more engaging. I hope you enjoy it.

Science Homework

I hope that you believe me
for I wouldn’t tell a lie.
I cannot turn my science homework in
and this is why:

I messed up the assignment
that you gave us yesterday.
It burbled from its test tube
and went slithering away.

It wriggled off the table
and it landed with a splat,
convulsed across my bedroom floor
and terrorized the cat.

It shambled down the staircase
with a horrid glorping noise.
It wobbled to the family room
and gobbled all my toys.

It tumbled to the kitchen
and digested every plate.
That slimy blob enlarged
with every item that it ate.

It writhed around the living room
digesting lamps and chairs,
then snuck up on our napping dog
and caught him unawares.

I came to school upset today.
My head’s in such a fog.
But this is my excuse:
You see, my homework at my dog.

—Kenn Nesbitt

About 150 years ago, an English children’s writer named William Brighty Rands wrote a poem called “Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore” about a boy who refused to ever shut the door and never listened to his parents until they built a sailboat and threatened to send him off to Singapore.

In the early 1900s, another English writer named Hillaire Belloc wrote a number of “cautionary tales” about children who misbehaved and met unfortunate ends, including “Jim, Who Ran Away from His Nurse, and Was Eaten by a Lion” and “Rebecca, Who Slammed Doors for Fun and Perished Miserably.”

About 50 years ago, Shel Silverstein wrote one of his most famous poems, “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out,” about a young girl who wouldn’t take the garbage out and met an untimely fate within that trash. In fact, just as Shel Silverstein’s poem was inspired by these earlier poems, my first poem, “Scrawny Tawny Skinner,” was inspired by “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout.”

I thought it would be a good idea to write another cautionary tale to pay homage to these poems of yesteryear, and this is the result. I hope you enjoy it.

Bradley Bentley Baxter Bloom

 Bradley Bentley Baxter Bloome
would never, ever clean his room.
He simply dropped things on the floor
and left them there forevermore.
And even if his parents yelled,
complaining that his bedroom smelled,
and told him, “Bradley Bentley Bloome,
go get a bucket and a broom
and bring them back and clean your room,”
he just refused to pick things up.
So every cord, or coat, or cup,
or Christmas card or candy cane
that hit the floor would just remain.

It only took a little while
before he had a massive pile
of dirty clothes and greasy plates
and dust-encrusted roller skates
and tattered toys and grimy games
and broken bits of picture frames
and rumpled rags and rusted keys
and crumpled bags and cracked CDs
and stuff he’d never seen before
on every inch of bedroom floor.

And even as the clutter grew
with one more muddy, cruddy shoe,
or old and moldy pear or plum,
or sloppy glob of chewing gum,
or burst balloon, or flattened hat,
or battered book, or baseball bat,
or worn and torn up magazine,
still Bradley Bloome would never clean.

He didn’t even seem to care
as rubbish covered up his chair,
his desk, his bookcase, and his bed,
and piled up higher than his head,
until, at last, there wasn’t room
enough to breathe for Bradley Bloome.
His parents heard him scream and shout,
and tried but couldn’t get him out,
because the garbage on the floor
had filled the room and blocked the door.

And, in the end, young Bradley died,
and everyone who knew him cried.
His parents wailed and tore their hair.
His teacher wept in deep despair.
His gran and grandpa grieved and groaned.
His siblings sobbed. His classmates moaned.
His friends all whimpered, “Bradley! Bradley!
Please come back. We miss you badly!”

But, just like kids who came before,
like Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,
the boy who never would shut the door,
and Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout,
who would not take the garbage out,
and scrawny little Tawny Skinner,
who could not, would not eat her dinner,
poor Bradley Bentley Baxter Bloome
unfortunately met his doom,
within the grease and grime and gloom
that blocked the door and sealed his tomb.

So, children, if I may assume
you do not want to meet your doom
like Bradley Bentley Baxter Bloome,
go get a bucket and a broom
and bring them back and clean your room. 

  — Kenn Nesbitt 

My Toes and My Nose

My toes are found upon my feet.
My nose is on my face.
You might think this would mean
that each is in its perfect place.

But if they were reversed, I think
they'd function just as well.
My nose is always running
and my toes, they really smell.

    -- Kenn Nesbitt