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How to Start a Poetry Journal

A journal is a place to express yourself, to record your thoughts, feelings and observations, and to cultivate your poetic style. The cool thing about your journal is that it’s yours. You can keep it secret or share it with your friends and family. You might even read some of your poetry out loud at a talent show or poetry jam. Whatever you decide to do with it, a daily poetry journal will keep you writing. And the more you write, the better writer you become!

Step One: Choose a journal that fits your style

Do you like to draw pictures and doodle around your poetry? If so, you might want a book with blank pages. Do you need help keeping your words in order? Then try a journal with lines, such as a spiral-bound notebook. If you write all day long whenever inspiration strikes, use a smaller book with a hard cover that you can tuck into your backpack, purse, or pocket.

Step Two: Organize your journal

While this is an important step, it will be different for everyone. You can divide your journal in several different ways:

  • Emotions: Joy, Anger, Sorrow, Humility, Pride
  • Seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall (add the different holidays within each season.)
  • Chronological: Just write the date at the top of the page.
  • Poetic Form: Acrostic, Cinquain, Clerihew, Diamante, Haiku, Limerick, Free Verse, etc.
  • Subject: Sports, Humor, Dance, Friends, Nature, School

Once you’ve decided how to organize your journal, use a paper clip, divider, sticky note, or colored tape to divide your sections. (You do not need to do this for a chronological journal.)

Step Three: Write!

Poetry Journal

Jot down interesting words, phrases, sentences, or feelings on the page before starting your poem. This provides a jumping-off point for your thoughts.

For example, today I heard someone say, “I can’t be late for the bus!” So, I wrote that sentence on the top of a page in my “School” section.

Next, write down words that have to do with your phrase. For mine, I chose: Run, shout, nervous, hurry, stop, fast, heartbeat, homework, driver, windows, ice, puddles, clock, time, and wheels.

Then, decide what type of poem you want to write. For this one, I selected free verse.

Finally, use some of the words on your page to write your poem.

Bus Stop
My heart beats
so fast.

The puddles are lakes,
my homework… wet.

The clock ticks
faster than my feet
can run.

I shout to the driver,
“Stop!”

Wheels slow.
Take a breath.

I can’t be late for the bus.

Step Four: Keep it up!

It’s important to write in your journal on a regular basis. Finding a routine can help with that. Maybe you have quiet time at night before bed, when you’re riding on the bus, or at lunch break. Make it a part of your day, and soon you’ll have an entire journal full of incredible poetry!

Arthur the Artist

arthur-the-artist

I’m Arthur. I’m an artist,
and I love to paint and draw.
I paint portraits on my forehead.
I draw landscapes on my jaw.

There’s nothing quite as fun
as making sketches on my skin,
so I color on my elbows
and I scribble on my chin.

I’m known for doing doodles
on my fingers and my toes,
and my belly and my back are brushed
with beautiful tableaus.

I hope you’ll come and see me
to appreciate my scrawls.
I am always in museums
where I hang upon the walls.

Just find the guy with ink and paint
on every body part.
Or, instead, just ask for me by name;
my friends all call me “Art.”

Bad Bertie Bartigan by Kenn Nesbitt Bad Bertie Bartigan

When Bad Bertie Bartigan strode into town,
he held up the bank and his britches fell down.
“Dad gum it!” he spluttered. “Gawl durn it! Aw, shoot!”
then picked up his britches, but fumbled the loot.
He lit out of town in a mad-scramble dash.
He still had his pants, but he’d lost all the cash.

The stagecoach was passing that moment, by chance.
He held up the stagecoach, and down went his pants.
“Dag nab it!” he blurted. “Dad blame it! Aw, no!”
then hoisted his trousers, but dropped all the dough.
He ran for the hills with his britches held high,
but Bertie was broke and he wanted to cry.

And, as he was running, he spotted the train,
so Bertie, who wasn’t renowned for his brain,
said, “This is a hold up!” His pants hit the deck.
“Garsh dang it!” he stammered. “Dog gone it. Aw, heck.”
He ran away clutching his britches again,
straight into the sheriff and all of his men.

They busted Bad Bertie and tossed him in jail,
to wait for his sentence with no chance of bail.
And, there in the hoosegow, in handcuffs and chains,
he held up no bank tellers, coaches, or trains.
“Dad blast it! Tarnation! Aw, Sam Hill!” he said,
then stood there and held up his britches instead.

My Dog Is Not the Smartest Dog

My Dog Is Not the Smartest Dog

My dog is not the smartest dog alive.
He seems to think that two and two is five.
He’s sure Japan’s the capital of France.
He says that submarines know how to dance.

My dog declares that tigers grow on trees.
He argues only antelopes eat cheese.
He tells me that he’s twenty nine feet tall,
then adds that ants are good at basketball.

He claims to own a mansion on the moon;
a palace that he bought from a baboon.
He swears the sun is made of candy bars,
and says he’s seen bananas play guitars.

It seems to me my dog is pretty dense.
He talks a lot, but doesn’t make much sense.
Although I love my dog with all my heart,
I have to say, he isn’t very smart.

Halloween Party

Halloween Party

We’re having a Halloween party at school.
I’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool!
I dyed my hair black and I cut off my bangs.
I’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs.

I put on some makeup to paint my face white
like creatures that only come out in the night.
My fingernails, too, are all pointed and red.
There’s no doubt I look like the evil undead.

My mom drops me off and I run into school
and suddenly feel like the world’s biggest fool.
The other kids stare like I’m some kind of freak.
The Halloween party is not till next week.

Willie's Wart by Kenn Nesbitt Willie’s Wart

Willie had a stubborn wart
upon his middle toe.
Regardless, though, of what he tried
the wart refused to go.

So Willie went and visited
his family foot physician,
who instantly agreed
it was a stubborn wart condition.

The doctor tried to squeeze the wart.
He tried to twist and turn it.
He tried to scrape and shave the wart.
He tried to boil and burn it.

He poked it with a pair of tongs.
He pulled it with his tweezers.
He held it under heat lamps
and he crammed it into freezers.

Regrettably these treatments
were of very little use.
He looked at it and sputtered,
“Ach! I cannot get it loose!

“I’ll have to get some bigger tools
to help me to dissect it.
I’ll need to pound and pummel it,
bombard it and inject it.”

He whacked it with a hammer
and he yanked it with a wrench.
He seared it with a welding torch
despite the nasty stench.

He drilled it with a power drill.
He wrestled it with pliers.
He zapped it with a million volts
from large electric wires.

He blasted it with gamma rays,
besieged it with corrosives,
assaulted it with dynamite
and nuclear explosives.

He hit the wart with everything
but when the smoke had cleared,
poor Willie’s stubborn wart remained,
and Willie’d disappeared.

Mythical Monster Party by Kenn Nesbitt Mythical Monster Party

The monsters are having a mythical ball;
a party like never before.
Their musical madness is rocking the hall
as the creatures are crowding the floor.

The Sirens are singing symphonious songs.
The Centaurs are ringing a chime.
The Giants are jumping and banging their gongs
while the Titans are waltzing in time.

The Sphinxes swing saxophones this way and that.
The Harpies perform on their harps.
The Sea-monsters sing all the notes that are flat
as the Serpents are sounding the sharps.

The Minotaurs strum on their mandolin strings.
The Dragons are pounding their drums.
Medusa can’t use any musical things
so she hangs with the Hydras and hums.

The Tritons are rapping, the Chimeras chant,
and Cerberus croons with them all.
The Cyclops would dance but he thinks that he can’t
so he just keeps his eye on the ball.

I'm Thinking of Writing a Poem Today by Kenn Nesbitt I’m Thinking of Writing a Poem Today

I'm Thinking of Writing a Poem Today by Kenn Nesbitt

I’m thinking of writing a poem today,
except I’m not sure what my poem should say.
I have a new notebook with paper to write on.
My pencil is sharpened (the one that I bite on).
I now only need inspiration to strike;
to bring an idea that I’m certain to like.

I’m sitting here waiting, but nothing’s occurring.
No feelings are forming. No senses are stirring.
I guess that it takes just a little bit longer
to get inspiration that’s better and stronger.
Which means if I sit here and patiently wait,
the stuff I come up with is sure to be great.

In no time at all, the ideas will be flowing.
My mind will be humming. My eyes will be glowing.
I’ll write the best poem that’s ever been written
and people will read it from China to Britain.
The critics will gush at my beautiful phrasing.
They’ll give me a prize and they’ll say I’m amazing.

And then I’ll be famous and rolling in money.
I’ll buy a big house somewhere scenic and sunny.
Except… I’m still waiting. It’s already noon.
I hope inspiration starts happening soon.
Because if it doesn’t, I’ll grumble in sorrow,
“I’m thinking of writing a poem… tomorrow.”

My Knee Is for Me by Kenn Nesbitt My Knee Is for Me

My Knee is for Me by Kenn Nesbitt

My dad said he needed
to borrow my knee.
He reached out and grabbed it
to take it from me.

I asked him to quit it.
He gave me a grin,
then yanked on my ankle
and tugged on my shin.

I yelled, “Cut it out!”
as he clung to my shoe
and pulled on my foot like
he wanted that too.

He finally stopped when
I started to beg,
then winked and said,
“I was just pulling your leg.”