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I found an empty cardboard box.
I made myself a fort.
I had to squeeze and twist and turn
and crumple and contort
to climb inside, but now I’m quite
embarrassed to report
I’m stuck inside this cardboard box
that’s clearly much too short.
Has anybody got a box
that’s bigger than a quart?
–Kenn Nesbitt
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I’m Bloome, the human boomerang.
I soar up in the sky.
My skill is quite remarkable.
It’s fun to watch me fly.
To start, I grab my ankles
and I lift me off the ground,
then swing myself in circles
till I’m spinning ’round and ’round.
And when I’m spinning fast enough
I say a little prayer,
then heave myself with all my might
and launch me in the air.
I fly a giant circle
and return right back to me.
Except today I missed and now
I’m stuck up in a tree.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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Today I walked into my big brother’s room,
and that’s when I saw it: The Armpit of Doom.
I wasn’t expecting The Armpit at all.
I shrieked and fell backward and grabbed for the wall.
The Armpit was smelly. The Armpit was hairy.
The Armpit was truly disgusting and scary.
I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry.
I wanted to flee from it’s all-seeing eye.
My skin started crawling with goosebumps and chills.
My brain began screaming to head for the hills.
I tried to escape but I knew I could not.
In horror, I found I was glued to the spot.
“Will somebody help me!?” I started to shout,
till fumes overcame me and made me pass out.
And that’s why I’m here in this hospital room;
it’s all on account of The Armpit of Doom.
I’m still feeling shaken. I’m queasy and pale,
but lucky I lived and can tell you my tale.
So take my advice… If you ever go near
your big brothers room, bring a whole lot of gear:
A gas mask and goggles, a helmet and shield,
or maybe a space suit that’s perfectly sealed.
And then, only then, when you’re fully prepared,
step in very slowly and hope you’ll be spared.
But, if you’re afraid of the Armpit of Doom,
stay far, far away from your big brother’s room.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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I’m Jake, the yo-yo maker.
Making yo-yos is my thing.
It only takes a chunk of wood
and several feet of string.
To try to make sure every
single yo-yo is unique,
I make some from mohagany,
and turn some out in teak.
I fashion some from plastic,
and I build some out of brass.
I sculpt some out of stone,
or manufacture them from glass.
A scrap of quilted fabric here.
A shred of metal there.
I even made a yo-yo, once,
from purple underwear.
Then, when I’m done constructing them,
I sell them on the street.
I’d say that making yo-yos
is a job that can’t be beat.
It brings such joy and happiness;
I don’t see many frowns.
But, just like any other job,
it has it’s ups and downs.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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A shark is a pet
that you don’t want to get.
There is nothing less fun than a shark.
He doesn’t have fur.
He won’t cuddle or purr,
and he never takes walks in the park.
Instead he just stares
and intensely prepares,
as he circles and waits in the dark,
to nibble your nose
and your fingers and toes,
for his bite is much worse than his bark.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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My teacher said to calculate
3.141 times 8.
I threw my hand up instantly
and so, of course, she called on me.
She asked me, “What’s the answer, please?”
I’d figured this one out with ease.
I looked her squarely in the eye
and calmly answered, “Octopi!”
It took her half an hour to get it,
and then she gave me extra credit.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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The Bagel Bird, by all accounts,
is said to lunch on large amounts
of sticks and twigs and sand and stones
and plastic parts from broken phones.
He’ll nibble bits of copper wires
and rubber from discarded tires.
He’ll chomp on tops of cuckoo clocks
and swallow shorts and stinky socks.
He’ll chew your shoes and eat your hat.
He’ll bite your books and baseball bat.
He’ll stuff his lips with poker chips
and snack on sails from sailing ships
and gobble poles and bowling balls
and pick at bricks from fallen walls
and graze on grass and feed on weeds
and dine on twine and strings of beads.
But bagels… whether white or wheat,
or salted, savory, or sweet,
or topped with lox or luncheon meat,
are something he will never eat.
At least that’s what I’ve always heard
about the crazy Bagel Bird.
But I don’t mind because, you see,
that leaves more bagels just for me.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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My mother makes prickly pear pastries.
My mother makes prickly pear pies.
She’s known for her prickly pear donuts
and flavorful prickly pear fries.
She sometimes makes prickly pear muffins
or prickly pear cookies and cakes.
She likes making prickly pear pizzas
and prickly pear smoothies and shakes.
I’ll bet she could write a whole cookbook
with all kinds of prickly pear food.
I’m sure you’d have no trouble guessing
what every last page would include.
I might even like her concoctions,
and wouldn’t just snicker and scoff,
if once in a while she’d remember
to take all the prickly parts off.
–Kenn Nesbitt
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Eric Ode is a children’s poet, songwriter, and entertainer, and the author of two poetry collections for kids: When You’re a Pirate Dog: And Other Pirate Poems and Tall Tales of the Wild West (And a Few Short Ones). In this episode of the Poetry4kids Podcast, Eric talks about his newest book, and even shares a poem and a song.
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I raised my hand in class this morning,
sitting in the back.
The teacher didn’t see, I think.
Instead she called on Jack.
I stretched my hand up higher,
but she called on Zach and Zoe.
I started bouncing up and down,
but, still, she called on Chloe.
I waved my arms but, even so,
she didn’t call on me.
She called on Bryan, Brooklyn, Billy,
Bailey, Ben, and Bree.
She called on Taylor, Tristan, Thomas,
Trinity, and Ty.
Then, finally, she called my name.
I breathed a heavy sigh.
She asked me for the answer.
I just frowned and clenched my knees,
and said, “I’ve no idea,
but could I use the bathroom, please?”
–Kenn Nesbitt
