Poems for Big Kids

Poems for 

Big Kids 

Rhyming poetry for children ages 8 - 13 

A collection compiled and edited by 

Neil Harding McAlister and 

Zara McAlister 

Co-edited by Angela Burns 

Illustrated by Ilene Black 

1

Poems for Big Kids 

Published by: 

McAlister, Neil Harding 

11 Island View Court 

Port Perry, Ontario, Canada 

L9L 1R6 

www.durham.net/~neilmac/travelerstales.htm 

Titles from this publisher: 

New Classic Poems: Contemporary Verse That Rhymes, 2005. 

Rhyme and Reason: Modern Formal Poetry, 2006. 

Poems for Big Kids, 2008. 

© 2008 Neil Harding McAlister. All rights reserved. The copyright of 

each poem in this collection is owned by its author. By written 

agreement, poets have assumed personal responsibility for the original 

authorship and clear copyright ownership of the works that bear their 

names. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any 

form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including digital 

information storage and retrieval devices and systems, without prior 

written permission of the publisher and the copyright owner(s), except 

that brief passages may be quoted, with attribution, for reviews or for 

scholarly purposes. 

Published and printed in Canada. 

ISBN 978-0-9737006-2-6 

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Preface 

Third in our series of collections of rhyming, metrical poetry 

by contemporary authors, we are pleased to present Poems for 

Big Kids, an anthology for older children. 

A young person’s earliest exposure to structured, rhyming 

poetry usually comes in the form of traditional nursery rhymes. 

The historical origin of a political satire like “Sing a Song of 

Sixpence,” or a bleak commentary on the Black Plague like “Ring 

Around the Rosy,” is completely lost on modern-day parents and 

tykes who delight in these quaint, old verses. However, rhyme 

and rhythm alone are enough to inscribe ancient doggerel in 

impressionable, young minds for a lifetime, centuries after our 

beloved nursery rhymes have ceased to have the slightest 

relevance to contemporary world events. 

In her introductory chapter, Ann Dixon outlines how 

children’s poetry evolved from simple roots to fruition in some of 

the greatest classics of humor, instruction and morality that are 

still known and loved to this day. However, modern times have 

not been kind to the type of skilful, rhyming poetry that was 

familiar to our grandparents when they were putting their little 

ones to bed. When our youngsters’ attention spans have 

shriveled to the length of television commercials, and their 

bedtimes are pushed later and later by the lure of electronic 

entertainment and homework obligations that are sometimes 

onerous, a medium such as poetry has difficulty competing, 

since it requires both intellectual engagement and sufficient time 

for quiet contemplation. Could this be the reason why the best of 

children’s poetry has long found itself between the covers of 

“bedtime” books? Bedtime remains that precious, quiet space at 

the end of a busy day when parents and young children can still 

interact in a close and thoughtful manner, free from other 

distractions. 

While the classics of poetry are to be treasured, it must be 

acknowledged that even a great and famous poem about a 

village blacksmith has limited resonance with children who are 

growing up in cities, who have never seen a horse at close range, 

and who don’t know what a smithy is. Fortunately, there are still 

writers who believe that our children deserve better intellectual 

nourishment than the silly, often violent pap served up in video 

games. Although it is given short shrift by a publishing industry 

that is necessarily focused on profit for its very survival, there 

exists a significant body of accomplished and meaningful 

contemporary poetry for young people. This book is one attempt 

to capture, record and distribute some of the best of this poetry 

before it disappears as ephemera. 

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Our greatest debt of thanks, therefore, is owed to the authors 

whose work comprises this collection. Posted on the Internet, 

our call for submissions elicited a wide response from the 

English-speaking world and beyond. Authors hail from Canada, 

the United States of America, Australia, the United Kingdom, 

India, France and the United Arab Emirates. For this reason, 

spelling in both British and American Press Standard forms is 

used in this volume, depending on the preference of the poets. 

We welcome back a number of writers who contributed work to 

our two earlier compendiums. We are honored to include 

several authors whose high reputations precede them to these 

pages; and others whose poetry appears in print for the very 

first time with publication of this book. 

The help of many other people is gratefully acknowledged. 

Angela Burns proof read the entire manuscript; and she gave 

invaluable editorial and technical help, becoming a co-Editor of 

this volume in the process. Thanks to artist Ilene Black for 

introducing herself to us, and for her enthusiastic participation 

throughout this project to create its superb, original illustrations. 

Ann Dixon has written a fine essay about the historical 

background of children’s poetry. Dr. Nazlin McAlister was our 

captive audience and sounding board at home for many poems 

that were read to her aloud. Thanks to the various literary 

societies and on-line poetry sites that publicized our call for 

submissions; and to friends who read and commented on work 

that we received over the course of a year, helping us to extract 

the best poems from among hundreds that we reviewed. Jean 

Taylor converted our original manuscript files to the professional 

format suitable for the printing press. Finally, but by no means 

least, we recognize the expertise of Multitech Graphics Inc. of 

Whitby, Ontario, for printing and binding. 

N. H. M c A. & Z. M c A. 

Port Perry, Ontario, Canada 

April, 2008 

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Contents 

Index of Poems 6 

Poetry and Children 9 

- Ann Dixon 

Let’s Be Silly 19 

Animal Friends 37 

The Moral of the Story 63 

Bits and Pieces 89 

Growing Up 111 

Contributors 131 

Index of First Lines 144 

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Index of Poems 

Let’s Be Silly 19 

When Noses Bloom, Linda A. Anderson 20 

Let A Smile Be Your Bumrella, Irene Livingston 22 

Nonsense, Cynthia K. Deatherage 22 

Boats, Madelyn Rosenberg 23 

The Sad Demise of the Vegetables, Nicole Braganza 24 

A Household Name, Gord Braun 24 

The Squash, B.L. Richardson 26 

Sing Sang Song, Nicole Braganza 26 

The Count-ulous Cat, Juleigh Howard-Hobson 27 

Chefosaurus, Graeme King 27 

The Moonless Night, Rolli 28 

Venice, Simon Leigh 28 

Sydney Opera House, Evelyn Roxburgh 29 

Ode to Mystery Meals, Kimberly Hodgkinson-Spencer 30 

Do You Like …, Mary Rand Hess 31 

Back-words Walking, Irene Livingston 32 

Tea Time, Angela Burns 33 

Georgie’s Pink and Perky Toes, Evelyn Roxburgh 34 

Pet Trees, Geoffrey A. Landis 35 

Who Rhymed on Monday?, Jen Finlayson 36 

Animal Friends 37 

Bedtime at the Zoo, Peter Webb 38 

Advice on the Groundhog, Sally Cook 39 

An Echo, Gord Braun 39 

Second Chance, Susan Eckenrode 40 

Jellumbungo, Evelyn Roxburgh 40 

My Kitty Cat, Ryan Gibbs 41 

Sven’s Pen, Janis Butler Holm 41 

A Fishy Tale, Catherine Edmunds 43 

Panda Moanium, Graeme King 44 

Warts, Dick Buenger 45 

The Moose, Neil Harding McAlister 47 

Bookworm, Madelyn Rosenberg 47 

Sitting on the Ceiling, Linda A. Anderson 48 

Cecil the Three Toed Sloth, Graeme King 49 

Backyard Blues, Byron D. Howell 51 

How Doth the Little Subway Mouse, Jen Finlayson 51 

To Catch a Rabbit, Joanne Underwood 52 

Playful Pups, James Kassam McAlister 53 

Feral Friends, Graeme King 54 

My Berry Loving Dog, B.L. Richardson 55 

Bee On My Nose, R. Wayne Edwards 56 

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Guinea Pigs, Neil Harding McAlister 57 

Terry Termite, Graeme King 59 

Nuts and Bolts, Peter Austin 60 

Scat Cat, Sonja Kershaw 60 

Emperor Penguin, She 62 

Squirrel Nutcase, She 62 

The Moral of the Story 63 

The U.S.S. Delusion, Peter G. Gilchrist 65 

Harvesting, Myra Stilborn 66 

Look to Your Dream, Nicole Braganza 66 

Pirate Pete, Graeme King 67 

Boomerang, Peter Austin 68 

Dragon Quest, Graeme King 69 

The Far Side of the Fence, Neil Harding McAlister 71 

A Right Time and a Wrong Time to be Lazy, Byron D. Howell 72 

Ambition, Cathy Bryant 73 

The Country Mouse in the Court of the Rat King, Phillip A. Ellis 74 

Pizza Pete, Graeme King 77 

The Poet’s Life, Gregory Christiano 78 

Lessons for Kids – Crossing Streets, jgdittier 79 

Bogey Man Bogus, Graeme King 80 

Space Race, Norma West Linder 82 

Old John McCraay, Sally Ann Roberts 83 

Conservatory, Graeme King 84 

Not Always to the Swift, Lee Evans 85 

The Swing of the Jungle, Graeme King 87 

Bits and Pieces 89 

A Trek Through the Himalayas, Srinjay Chakravarti 90 

Soon Scarum Stiff, Evelyn Roxburgh 91 

Hip Tips for Camping Trips, Irene Livingston 92 

A Home By The Sea, Patricia Louise Gamache 93 

The Composition Teacher Addresses His Class, Joseph S. Salemi 94 

Music to our Ears, Peggy Fletcher 95 

Dress Up Day In May, Norma West Linder 95 

The Cool One, Myra Stilborn 96 

The Scarecrow, Amy Hagerty 96 

If Only, Neil Harding McAlister 98 

The Dusky-Leaf Monkey, Rolli 98 

The Christmas Tree That Saved My Life, Sally Ann Roberts 99 

The Art Lesson, June C. Horsman 101 

Flutters of Thought, Susan Eckenrode 102 

Star of the Week, Julie Thorndyke 102 

Wander-lust, Cynthia K. Deatherage 103 

Myth Defied, Angela Burns 104 

In a Book of Fairy Tales, jgdittier 105 

The Summer Garden, Juleigh Howard-Hobson 106 

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Dandelion, Dick Buenger 106 

Song of the Railwaymen, Tony Newman 107 

The Magic Tricycle, Graeme King 108 

The Weather Report, James Kassam McAlister 110 

Growing Up 111 

Odds-on Love, Joanne Underwood 112 

Band Mates, Joanne Underwood 112 

For My Daughter, David Gwilym Anthony 113 

The Garbage Man’s Lament, B.L. Richardson 113 

My Mother Made A Snowman, Elizabeth F. Hill 114 

My Sister, Frances Hern 116 

Rainbow’s End, Sally Clark 116 

Party Time, Joanne Underwood 117 

Little Man, Patricia Louise Gamache 118 

Sweet Girl, Patricia Louise Gamache 119 

Only One, Ian Thornley 119 

An Ethereal Visit, J. Graham Ducker 121 

The Freshman, Peter G. Gilchrist 122 

Speaking Up, Ian Thornley 122 

The Little Pup, B.L Richardson 123 

Bunkbeds and Brothers, Elizabeth F. Hill 125 

Double Trouble, Rusty Fischer 127 

The Perfect Child, Peter Austin 128 

Mother’s Smile, Mike Burch 128 

It’s Her Room Now, Rusty Fischer 129 

The Runner, Neil Harding McAlister 130 

8

Poems for Big Kids Poetry and Children 

Poetry and Children 

Ann Dixon 

Poetry for children begins as an oral art. Even today, in our media 

saturated world, nursery rhymes and word play introduce babies and 

young children to their language and culture. Historically, children’s 

poetry began orally as well. Used both to instruct and entertain, poetry 

has shaped generations of children and the literature of childhood as a whole. 

Before the printing press, hand-produced books were available only to 

the children of the wealthy. Many primary lesson books were written in rhyme. 

Most children, lacking these books, instead absorbed whatever appealed to 

them from the oral literature they heard. Poetic forms of these literary nuggets 

might include lullabies, work songs, ballads, and nursery rhymes. Elements of 

poetry, such as alliteration, rhyme, meter, and rhythm aided the memorization 

and retention of oral literature. Imagery depended not on pictures, which were 

few, but primarily on the imaginations of listeners in response to the words 

they heard. 

As early as the fifteenth century, printers began producing literary texts 

aimed at children, not to entertain them with stories, but to educate. “Courtesy 

books,” as they were called, emphasized manners and behavior, often 

employing rhyme to aid memorization. With the exception of early Latin 

grammar texts, the first book known to be printed for children was Les 

Contenances de la Table, published in France around 1487. It conveyed table 

manner lessons in rhyming quatrains. This excerpt from “Symon’s Lesson of 

Wisdom for All Manner Children,” from The Babees’ Book, typifies the emphasis 

on instruction, rather than literary quality: 

Child, over men’s houses no stones fling 

Nor at glass windows no stones sling… 

Child, keep thy book, cap and gloves 

And all things that thee behoves, 

And but thou do, thou shalt fare worse 

And thereto be beat on the bare erse (in Townsend, p. 4). 

In 1646 John Cotton wrote the first known book for children published in 

the New World; Milk for Babes, Drawn out of the Breasts of Both Testaments, 

Chiefly for the Spirituall Nourishment of Boston Babes in either England, but 

may be of like Use for any Children. A summary of Puritan theology in verse, it 

begins: 

Who is the Maker of all things? 

The Almighty God who reigns on high. 

He form’d the earth, He spread the sky (in Sutherland, p.45). 

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Another Puritan title popular at the time, A Looking Glass for Children 

(1672), offers this chilling rhyme: 

Hath God such comeliness bestowed 

And on me made to dwell, 

‘Tis pity such a pretty maid 

As I should go to Hell (in Townsend, p. 6). 

John Bunyan’s A Book for Boys and Girls (1686), written in verse and 

later issued as Divine Emblems (1724), is not as well-known as his Pilgrim’s 

Progress (1678), which was written in prose for adults. Nor is it likely to be read 

by contemporary children, due to the grimness of its verses. The New England 

Primer, first published in 1680, contains a variety of pictures and verses — all 

intended for moral and reading instruction. It became the primary reader for 

children in the American colonies. Known for its rhymes and woodcuts (one for 

each letter of the alphabet), the first verse is still famous: “In Adams fall/We 

sinned all.” Numerous editions of the book were published in the centuries that 

followed. 

Another publication of note was Perrault’s collection of folktales, 

subtitled “Tales of Mother Goose,” first produced in France in 1697, then 

published in English by R. Samber in 1729 as a chapbook, or small booklet. The 

stories were told in prose, but concluded with one or more rhymed morals. 

Rhyme continued to be considered useful as a didactic tool. Dr. Isaac 

Watts, in the preface to his tremendously popular Divine and Moral Songs for 

Children (1715), extols the virtues of verse for its instructional value: 

There is something so amusing and entertaining in Rhymes and Metre, 

that will incline Children to make this part of their business a Diversion … 

What is learnt in Verse is longer retain’d in Memory, and sooner 

recollected. The like Sounds and the like number of Syllables 

exceedingly assist the remembrance (in Townsend, p. 104). 

Watts used “Rhymes and Metre” more artfully than his published 

predecessors. His Divine and Moral Songs were so successful that six or seven 

hundred editions of the book were published over the following two centuries in 

England and America. “Cradle Hymn” was included in later editions of The New 

England Primer and other verses were so well known that several were 

parodied 150 years later by Lewis Carroll in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

From Didacticism to Diversion 

Watts’ poems and their success reflected a profound softening of the 

Puritan outlook. Alongside Watts, the versifier most significant to 

children over the next 75 years was Mother Goose. Uncertainty 

surrounds the first publication date of “her” rhymes, which are not 

attributed to any one author, but arose over many decades from oral tradition. 

Mother Goose rhymes provided – and still provide - children with an 

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introduction to poetic elements such as alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhyme, and 

meter. With their sing-song quality and variety of topics and types - alphabet, 

proverbs, stories, songs, nonsense, and tongue twisters, to name a few - the 

rhymes range from nonsensical to instructional. Though often disregarded as 

literature, these verses have survived and thrived through the transition from 

oral to written literature. 

A noteworthy book during that time period was produced in 1744 by 

John Newbery (for whom the most prestigious award in United States children’s 

literature, the Newbery Medal, is named). A Little Pretty Pocket-Book included 

rhymed games, morals, and alphabets, as well as some poems. The book was 

significant for its stated intention of including, not only “instruction” but also 

“amusement” and “diversion.” 

Newbery’s contribution to children’s literature was part of a larger 

movement toward the expansion of social, intellectual, and literary ideas as the 

English middle class matured during the 1800s. Much of the responsibility for 

this change is ascribed to the philosopher John Locke. His Thoughts Concerning 

Education, published in 1693, advocated for milder, more enjoyable ways of 

learning. Locke identified the value of entertainment as a motivator in learning 

to read, much as Watts before him had recommended the use of rhyme and 

meter to aid in the retention of moral learning. 

The Unleashing of Imagination 

William Blake expanded upon the concept of combining edification with 

entertainment. In the Introduction to his Songs of Innocence (1789), 

Blake concludes his first poem with the verse: 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain’d the water clear 

And I wrote my happy songs 

Ev’ry child may joy to hear. 

Blake also hand-colored each poem with ornamental designs. Although 

he wrote in obscurity during his lifetime, his lyrical verses heralded the 

movement toward romantic poetry. 

Much more popular, and immediately so, were the works of Ann and 

Jane Taylor, whose Original Poems for Infant Minds, published in 1804, 

contained one of the most sentimental and beloved poems of the century, “My 

Mother.” The book was translated into several languages and remains best 

known today for the single poem “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” which was 

authored by Jane (and later parodied by Lewis Carroll). Additionally, the sisters 

wrote Rhymes for the Nursery (1806) and Hymns for Infant Minds (1808). 

Original Poems follows Watts’ tradition of moral instruction, but enlivened with 

more energetic storytelling. 

Children’s poetry was progressing from its beginnings as rhyme for 

instruction, to a genre that elicits delight in the telling of a story and evokes a 

mood or revels in the sounds and rhythms of language. William Roscoe’s The 

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Butterfly’s Ball, published in 1807 in England, is both a poem and a children’s 

picture book in the modern sense, where text and pictures are fully-integrated. 

Although weak on plot, it is attractively illustrated, containing one couplet and 

illustration per page. The book is significant now, not for its remarkable literary 

value, but for its complete lack of instruction. It seems to exist solely to delight. 

The Butterfly’s Ball was immensely popular, spawning dozens of imitators and 

paving the way for freer development of the poetic imagination. 

An even more popular and long-lived work, A Visit from St. Nicholas, was 

published in 1823 in the United States. Attributed, apparently incorrectly, to 

Clement C. Moore, it is still reprinted and widely read today¹. The story-poem 

is fast-moving, humorous, and devoid of warnings and morals. Another story 

poem, The Pied Piper of Hamlin (1842) by Robert Browning, remains familiar, 

but is less widely read than Moore’s. It includes a clear thematic moral, but 

adds elements of fantasy as well. 

Nonsense and the Birth of Modern Children’s Poetry 

By the mid-1800s, the fanciful was clearly on the rise. Edward Lear’s Book 

of Nonsense, printed in 1846, marked the advent of the next stage in 

children’s poetry. A collection of absurd limericks with Lear’s illustrations, 

it begins: 

There was an Old Man with a beard, 

Who said, “It is just as I feared!— 

Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, 

Have all built their nests in my beard!” 

Lear later wrote nonsense stories in verse, including some that are still 

widely known - such as “The Jumblies” and “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” from 

Nonsense Songs (1870). Around the same time, that other master of nonsense 

verse, Lewis Carroll, produced Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865), which 

consisted mostly of verse parodies, and Through the Looking Glass (1871), 

which contained more original verse. While Carroll was wildly inventive and 

satirical, Lear was a better poet. The two writers inaugurated a new era in 

which fantasy became prominent as a genre. 

Once children's literature in general, and poetry in particular, were freed 

to encompass wild invention, storytelling, and fantasy, these elements took 

root and blossomed. In 1862, the poet and artist Christina Rossetti created 

Goblin Market, an original fairy story in verse. It was very popular and praised 

by critics. Her poems continue to be anthologized and reprinted. Kate 

Greenaway made her debut in 1878 with Under the Window, a collection of her 

own rhymes and illustrations, which became a sensation almost overnight, not 

only in Britain, where it was printed, but also in America and continental Europe. 

Printer Edmund Evans produced the book using an expensive process that 

yielded superior graphic results for its day. Although Greenaway wrote the 

verses in Under the Window and Marigold Garden (1885), she is remembered 

primarily as an illustrator. 

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Around the same time, another landmark in children’s poetry, Robert 

Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, was published in 1885 as Penny 

Whistles. It contains the following excerpt from a favorite poem of childhood, 

“The Swing”: 

How do you like to go up in a swing, 

Up in the air so blue? 

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 

Ever a child can do! 

Stevenson was already widely known for his essays and fiction, so his 

poems for children found a ready audience. His writing continues to be 

anthologized as well as produced in picture book format. New editions of A 

Child’s Garden of Verses appear at least once per decade. 

As the nineteenth century neared the twentieth, several new poets for 

children emerged. Eugene Field published a collection of poems called Lullaby 

Land (1897). Though popular at the time, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod” is now 

the only poem remembered. Fellow American James Whitcomb Riley is known 

primarily for “Little Orphan Annie,” particularly the refrain: 

“The gobble-uns’ll git you 

Ef you 

Don’t 

Watch 

Out!” 

During his lifetime, Riley garnered considerable acclaim as a poet for 

children. His use of colloquialism and folk dialect demonstrate a popular 

acceptance of non-standard English - at least when it was used creatively for 

literary fun. 

The 20th Century: Variety and Visuals 

As the century turned, poetry for children began to develop a wider range 

of expression. Johnny Crow’s Garden (1903), written and illustrated by 

Englishman Leslie Brooke, was a successful early pioneer of the 

single-poem, picture-book format. In the United States, Laura Richards 

frequently wrote verse for the popular children’s magazine St. Nicholas. Her 

best known work is Tirra Lirra, published in 1932. 

Around the same time, the English poets Walter de la Mare and Eleanor 

Farjeon wrote poetry and prose for adults and children. Peacock Pie (1917) and 

Rhymes and Verses (1947) are favorite de la Mare poetry collections. Farjeon’s 

poetry books include Eleanor Farjeon’s Poems for Children (1951); The 

Children’s Bells (1960); and Kings and Queens (1983). The poems of Richards, 

de la Mare, and Farjeon are still regularly printed in anthologies and magazines 

for children. 

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Two other well-known poets from the United States - Robert Frost and 

Carl Sandburg - deserve a mention. Although Sandburg’s Rootabaga Stories is 

probably more widely-recognized than his poetry, verses from Early Moon 

(1930) and Wind Song (1960) are often included in contemporary children’s 

collections. Several picture book versions of Frost’s poems exist and his work 

continues to be anthologized. 

Still other wonderful poets include A. A. Milne, with his tender, 

child-centered poems in When We Were Very Young (1924) and Now We Are 

Six (1927), both of which were tremendously popular. Rachel Field’s first book 

of poetry for children, The Pointed People (1924), had to compete with Milne's, 

but was well received nonetheless. Field’s poem, “A Road Might Lead to 

Anywhere,” was printed as a picture book in 1990. 

Elizabeth Coatsworth, known for her Newbery Medal-winning story The 

Cat Who Went to Heaven, also wrote several collections of poetry, including 

Summer Green (1948), Poems (1957), The Sparrow Bush (1966) and Down 

Half the World (1968). She frequently incorporated poems into her fiction. 

Another writer of verse, destined for fame in the United States and 

eventually the world, emerged in the years prior to World War II. Theodore 

Seuss Geisel, a.k.a. Dr. Seuss, published his rhymed narrative And to Think 

That I Saw It on Mulberry Street in 1937. While most of his works favor story 

over poetry, they carry on the traditions of creative nonsense and verse while 

telling stories to children. Interestingly, this work was reminiscent of early, 

moral children’s poetry, although the reader may be too busy enjoying the 

unique characters and imaginative illustrations to notice. 

Giesel also contributed to the development of a genre that has become 

immensely popular, the beginning reader. The Cat in the Hat, now available in 

many languages, is an accepted resource for youngsters learning to read. 

Using limited vocabulary, simple rhyme, and extravagant imagination, Giesel 

expanded upon existing traditions of nonsense verse in children’s literature, 

and older ones which used verse as an aid to learning - in this case, learning to 

read. 

Other early-to-mid twentieth century poets for children include Langston 

Hughes, David McCord, Harry Behn, Aileen Fisher, and Theodore Roethke. With 

The Dream Keeper (1932), Hughes became the first African-American poet to 

be widely read by children. 

The second half of the century brought changes to children’s literature that 

reflected ongoing social and political transformations. Another 

African-American writer, Gwendolyn Brooks, broke ground with 

Bronzeville Boys and Girls (1956). Its poems illuminated the lives of 

urban African-American youth. Poets such as May Swenson expanded the usual 

boundaries of poetry by creating free verse that formed riddles, puzzles, and 

patterns. Eve Miriam also explored this variation, and pushed the limits of what 

were considered suitable topics for children. Her The Inner City Mother Goose 

(1969) caused controversy for its focus on the social problems faced by inner 

city children, and even garnered calls for a ban in the United States. 

Poetic subjects and forms continued to broaden. An interest in cultural 

diversity led to the publication of more poetry by African-Americans, including 

14


Arnold Adoff and Eloise Greenfield, the latter best known for her Honey, I Love 

and Other Love Poems (1978). Poets from other cultural backgrounds also 

began publishing for children, including Gary Soto, whose work reflected Latino 

culture; Hettie Jones, whose book The Trees Stand Shining (1971) focused on 

Native American themes; and James Berry, a Jamaican author. 

Another development during the 1960s was an increase in poetry written 

in free verse. Karla Kuskin, Siv Cedering Fox, Sylvia Cassedy, Barbara 

Esbensen, and Valerie Worth, were noted for their use of the form; which was 

carried forward by other poets into the last four decades of the twentieth 

century. 

Many other modern poets and writers of verse deserve mention: Hilaire 

Belloc, John Ciardi; Beatrice Schenk De Regniers, Paul Fleischman, Roy 

Gerrard, Nikki Giovanni, Mary Ann Hoberman, Lee Bennett Hopkins, 

Ted Hughes, Randall Jarrell, X. J. Kennedy, Dennis Lee, Myra Cohn 

Livingston, Phyllis McGinley, Ogden Nash, Charlotte Pomerantz, William Jay 

Smith, Nancy Willard, and Jane Yolen. 

Dennis Lee, the first poet laureate of Canada, is best known for his 

several collections of children’s poetry, including the hugely successful Alligator 

Pie (1974). Shel Silverstein stands out as a writer of light verse for Where the 

Sidewalk Ends (1974) and A Light in the Attic (1981), both phenomenally 

popular. These writers carried on the humor and imagination of the nonsense 

tradition begun by Lear and expanded upon by Giesel. Jack Prelutsky continued 

the sub-genre in his many volumes, beginning with Rolling Harvey Down the 

Hill (1980). Collaborating with illustrator Lane Smith, he created Hooray for 

Diffendoofer Day! (1998) from notes left by Geisel. 

In the United States, literary honors have reflected a revival of interest 

in poetry for children, as well as other contemporary trends. Nancy Willard was 

the first to receive a Newbery Medal for a book of poetry for A Visit to William 

Blake’s Inn (1981). In 1988, Jane Yolen’s Owl Moon, a prose poem, was 

awarded the Caldecott Medal. Paul Fleischman’s Joyful Noise: Poems for Two 

Voices garnered the 1989 Newbery; and Karen Hesse received the first 

Newbery for a novel in free verse, Out of the Dust, in 1998. 

A trend toward blurring the distinction between prose and poetry in 

books for children continues. Writers of recent novels in verse include Sharon 

Creech, Nikki Grimes, Angela Johnson, Ron Koertge, and Jacqueline Woodson. 

Another critically successful extension of poetry merges free verse with 

biography. Two acclaimed examples are Carver: A Life in Poems (2001) by 

Marilyn Nelson ongoing evolution in artistic technique and graphic capability - 

are evolving in and The Poet Slave of Cuba: A Biography of Juan Francisco 

Manzano (2007) by Margarita Engle. 

Increasingly complex visual treatments of poetry - a continuation of the 

children’s literature. The extent to which a poetry book is illustrated depends on 

the type of poetry book being produced. While illustrations have often 

accompanied poetry collections for children, poetry picture books have become 

more popular in recent decades. In previous centuries, the quality of the 

illustrations was unsophisticated compared to those produced today - and far 

fewer books were published. 

15


Some critics question whether so much illustration is good for poetry – or 

for children. Unless carefully conceived and executed, illustrations may inhibit 

children’s imaginations by eliminating the need to create their own mental 

images, in the same way that watching too much television can stunt the 

imagination by never requiring its use. Defining a poem through illustration is 

particularly controversial when a child is first exposed to verse during their 

most impressionable years. 

There are other problems as well. Breaking a poem’s lines in order to fit 

a picture book format, and to facilitate illustration, may distort the author’s 

intended rhythm, tone, or pacing. Book design must take into account details 

such as the placement of page turns, to coincide with natural pauses in the 

reading and avoid mutilating the poet’s carefully-crafted cadences. The poems 

of long-deceased authors, which are readily available in the public domain, are 

especially vulnerable to illustrations that contradict, overpower, or clash with 

the text. 

Illustrated picture books of narrative poems, with strong story lines, 

seem best-suited to visual treatment. Examples are: “Casey at the Bat” 

(illustrated in 1980 by Wallace Tripp; Barry Moser in 1988; and Christopher 

Bing in 2000) or “The Adventures of Isabel,” humorously illustrated by James 

Marshall in 1991. As a poem moves further from concrete images and 

storytelling, into the realms of interior experience, perception, and emotions, 

illustration runs the greater risk of limiting and characterizing the poet’s words, 

rather than expanding and illuminating them. 

Anthologies also reflect the trend toward visual interpretation of poetry, 

but because the ratio of illustration to text is smaller, they generally avoid the 

dangers of text distortion found in picture books. While some, such as The 

Random House Book of Poetry for Children (1983), Read-Aloud Rhymes for the 

Very Young (1986), and Sing a Song of Popcorn (1988), are large in size and 

general in scope, most collections from the 1990s concentrate on specific 

themes, audiences, or genres. 

Another trend of the 1980s and 1990s was an increased interest in 

poetry for, and by, young adults. This is evident in the success of anthologies, 

such as those edited by Paul Janeczko and Naomi Shihab Nye; the popularity of 

rap music, poetry slams, and magnetic poetry; and activities such as Poetry in 

Motion, Poems on the Underground, and National Poetry Month - all of which 

encourage youth to create, perform, and publish their own poetry. 

In a return to the trend begun in the 1960s, serious social issues - such 

as human rights, the environment, and AIDS - are being addressed in poetry 

for young people. Cultural and racial awareness has given way to a more global 

perspective that is exemplified by Naomi Shihab Nye’s highly-regarded 

multicultural anthology This Same Sky: A Collection of Poems from Around the 

World (1992). 

16


The 21st Century: Technology and Poetry 

New, interesting developments arise almost daily, it seems, from the 

plethora of technological and electronic formats available today. New 

resources, such as Representative Poetry Online, provide a vast 

database of thousands of poems and hundreds of poets writing in English 

(http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/display/index.cfm). Poetry websites designed 

specifically for children encourage youth to play with poetry online, learn more 

about it, and interact with others.² Numerous other websites, such as Boston 

Teachnet, Education World, PBS, Web English Teacher, and Poets House, offer 

lesson plans for teachers and creative poetry activities. Book/CD combinations 

such as Poetry Speaks: Hear Great Poets Read Their Work from Tennyson to 

Plath (2001) and Poetry Speaks to Children (2005) bring poetry alive using 

modern audio technology. Websites are doing the same. PoetryFoundation.org 

(http://www.poetryfoundation.org), Poets.org (http://www.poets.org), and 

some author websites are using this alternate form. 

Through centuries of social change and technological transformation, 

poetry for children continues to flourish and evolve. Perhaps the core reason for 

this phenomenon has to do with the fact that children and poets share a 

capacity for perception and imagination. As long as children need to learn, and 

as long as vibrant poetry is presented to them, it is likely that poetry’s oral 

roots will take hold in children, even in this age of technology. Indeed, new 

ways of using technology are arising to enhance poetry’s relationship to the 

oral. The creative imaginations of both poet and child continue to expand the 

uses of poetry, from a powerful educational tool to a multifaceted – and 

multi-formatted - source of enrichment, delight, and discovery. 

Notes 

1. The editors of Representative Poetry Online, hosted by the University 

of Toronto Libraries, believe that Moore is not the author of the poem. Don 

Foster, a professor at Vassar College, attributes the poem to Major Henry 

Livingston, Jr. in his book Author Unknown: On the Trail of Anonymous (2000). 

(http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/231.html) 

2. For examples, see sites such as Giggle Poetry, featuring Bruce Lansky, 

and other poets associated with Meadowbrook Press; poet Kenn Nesbitt’s 

“poetry playground” at Poetry4Kids; Poetry Zone, created by poet Roger 

Stevens; and publisher Scholastic’s “Poetry Writing With” web pages featuring 

Jack Prelutsky and Karla Kuskin. 

17


Bibliography 

Arbuthnot, M. H. (1964). Children and books (3rd ed.). Glenview, IL: Scott, 

Foresman and Co. 

Hurst, C. (1999). Featured author: Dr. Seuss. Retrieved March 20, 2004 from 

Carol Hurst’s Children’s Literature Web site: 

http://www.carolhurst.com/authors/drseuss.html 

MacDonald, E. K. (1990). The illustrated poem: An uneasy alliance [Electronic 

version]. School Library Journal, 36(7), 28-29. 

Rudman, M. K. (Ed.). (1989). Children’s literature: resource for the classroom. 

Norwood, MA: Christopher-Gordon. 

Silvey, A. (Ed.). (1995). Children’s books and their creators. Boston: Houghton 

Mifflin. 

Sutherland, Z. (1997). Children and books (9th ed.). New York: Addison 

Wesley Longman. 

Townsend, J. R. (1992). Written for Children: An outline of English-language 

children’s literature (First Harper Trophy ed.). New York: HarperCollins. 

_____________________________ 

Portions of this article appeared previously under the title “Poetry in Children’s Literature: 

Development of a Genre” in the November 2006 issue of Library Student Journal, available at 

http://informatics.buffalo.edu/org/lsj 

18

Poems for Big Kids Let’s Be Silly! 

Let’s Be Silly ! 

19


When Noses Bloom 

Linda A. Anderson 

I started life with a small nose, 

tiny hands, fingers and toes; 

I grew in spurts, then with a boom, 

my little nose burst into bloom. 

My body parts all grew apace, 

except the middle of my face-- 

in growth it never showed a lack, 

it was the leader of the pack. 

It left the rest of me behind. 

At first I didn't even mind; 

then when its bloom was almost done, 

my nose became a source of fun. 

My friends tagged me with stupid names. 

This was one of their favorite games-- 

pain comes with more than sticks and stones; 

I told them, "Leave my nose alone!" 

Then once my nose had reached its peak, 

proclaimed by some a handsome beak, 

I found its size to be a plus, 

and not a thing for animus. 

There are so many things to smell, 

not all the noses do it well; 

mine can suck in all the scents, 

from fragrant blooms to moldy tents. 

It keeps my lips dry in the rain, 

locates a skunk and warns my brain; 

all races I win "by a nose"; 

in winter's cold it starts to glow. 

Those small nosed people now despair, 

they wish they had a nose so rare! 

This nose of mine has grown on me; 

I'm pleased with it as I can be! 

Though it won't ever be called cute-- 

it's too much like a yellow fruit-- 

at least it's left the blooming stage, 

unless it grows more in old age! 

20


21


Let a Smile Be Your Bumrella 

Irene Livingston 

Gardelia woke up feeling grundled. 

She gronked and she glombled aloud. 

The rain slizzled down on the windel. 

She felt all deblattled and drowd. 

The birds were not chippering and tweeping. 

Aweesh! Went the cars slooshing by. 

the day was all glompy and morky. 

The clouds looked so blonk in the sky. 

She dithered and dibbled and dabbled. 

She played with the skampering pup. 

She tickled the baby, who bibbled. 

But nothing could spirkle her up. 

Then poppenly out came a rainbow. 

The slizzling and slooshing were done. 

She sprit out the door like a leeper 

And smiled in the sperkling sun. 

She mentled, "I'll try to demender 

That slizzling and slooshing don't last. 

The sun will come sparkling and smilering, 

The way it has done in the past.” 

Nonsense 

Cynthia K. Deatherage 

O for the Days when the Night-wind blows, 

And the Nights when the Day-wind roams, 

When Wisdom is that which no one knows, 

And Knowledge is left in tomes . . . 

When that which is Up is what came from the Down 

And that which is Now is of Yore. 

O for the Time before Time was found 

In the sands of a distant Shore! 

22


Boats 

Madelyn Rosenberg 

We're having boats for dinner 

What a lovely thing to eat. 


Bet I could eat a fleet. 

Ocean liners, sailboats 

Tugs and rowboats, too 

I reckon I'll spit out the oars; 

I don't eat sticks, do you? 

I run into the kitchen 

Just to give my Ma a squeeze 

Cause we're having boats for dinner 

Instead of fish and peas. 

But when I open up the oven? 

Not a single yacht or dinghy. 


But they're made out of zucchini! 

23


The Sad Demise of the Vegetables 

Nicole Braganza 

I lost my head, the lettuce said 

A bounteous mop of green, 

And someone even spilled 

An agitated string of beans, 

Then Potato lost an eye 

And Corn Cob lost an ear, 

A pink and sentimental onion 

Shed a lonesome tear. 

A mushy heart of artichoke, 

Welled up with such compassion, 

A hand of bananas was chopped off 

In such a ruthless fashion, 

No rib of celery was spared, 

No neck of squash released, 

And sad to say, this was the way 

The vegetables deceased. 

A Household Name 

Gord Braun 

there was a certain Turkish king 

who liked his spices hot 

among them was a condiment 

he really liked a lot 

for this he earned a moniker 

of great and lasting fame 

and that's how sultan pepper 

got to be a household name 

24


25


The Squash 

B. L. Richardson 

The squash in my garden went bump in the night. 

It bumped ‘til it woke me. I got quite a fright. 

I peeked out my window and saw a strange sight - 

The squash was humongous and glowing with light. 

It rocked and it rolled, made a gurgling sound, 

It popped its insides out all over the ground. 

The yellow bits fell in a mountainous mound 

All over the doghouse of Gomer my hound. 

Poor Gomer crawled out with seeds on his head, 

His fur and his eyes glowed a fiery red. 

The guck and the goo were all over his bed. 

I washed him and put him to bed in the shed. 

The squash got cooked up, sealed in Mason jars tight; 

But sometimes it glows and goes bump in the night. 

Whenever it does, Gomer crawls out of sight. 

I no longer grow squash. Well, next year I might. 

Sing Sang Song 


At the sing sang song 

Where the words go wrong 

And the audience all go BOO! 

There’s a song sang sing 

It’s a teacher’s thing 

Where they all go jibber jabber joo 

At the song sing sang 

All the students bang 

On the piano, till spanked blue 

So its sing sang song 

Words go wrong 

Song sang sing 

Teacher’s thing 

Song sing sang 

Students bang 

A raucous squeal of a song 

It’s the sing sang sing sang song! 

26


The Count-ulous Cat 

Juleigh Howard-Hobson 

“Daisy, my dear...” said the count-ulous cat. 

“Yes, my sweet puss?” the girl spake. 

“Times eighteen by three then take three out of that.” 

“Fifty one?” said the child, “For what sake?” 

“Now take fifty one more,” said the cat with a smile, 

“With three more off of that, to be fine.” 

“Fifty one twice is one hundred two, while 

Three more less makes it all… ninety nine?” 

“Oh yes!” quoth the cat, with unfeline-ous yelp, 

“Ninety nine! Ninety nine! Oh my dear!” 

“But ninety nine what?” asked his reckoning help. 

“Why, the words, my dear child, written here.” 

Chefosaurus 

Graeme King 

A dinosaur went walking, for to see what he could munch. 

Perhaps a small triceratops would make a tasty lunch? 

Or what about a geyser-steamed pterodactyl pie? 

(But they were very hard to catch because they flew so high.) 

How he wished that he could swim – he’d jump into the lake, 

And catch an ichthyosaurus, to eat with hot mudcake, 

But he was scared of water and his fishing skills were poor, 

And sweet sea creatures almost never came up on the shore . 

He thought of caveman casserole, and mousse of giant spider, 

And Neolithic fries washed down with venus fly trap cider, 

A steamy soup of saurians – iguana fricassee? 

Or maybe sauté therapods, with Mesolithic tea. 

A Paleolithic pasta stuffed with alligator eggs? 

Or sweet Jurassic jelly, all afloat with lizard’s legs? 

Or trilobites in aspic, yum! A dinosaur’s delight! 

Nothing beats a great big plate of chili trilobite! 

Then his mind came back to Earth – what a funny dream! 

Stegosaurus steaks char-grilled on hot volcanic steam? 

What had he been thinking? He had never tasted meat… 

He was vegetarian and would lunch on leaves and peat! 

27


The Moonless Night 

Rolli 

Oh, please. 

Oh, please! 

The moon’s not cheese. 

It’s golden-crumbling 

tummy-rumbling 

crispy-flaking 

hungry-making 

butter-fluffy 

oven-puffy 

rich and tasty 

PASTRY! 

How do I know? 

Where’d the moon go? 

Well ... 

You’re right to be suspicious– 

it was delicious! 

Venice 

Simon Leigh 

Venice is sinking! 

What were they thinking? 

Cities don’t float— 

Build a boat. 

28


Sydney Opera House 

Evelyn Roxburgh 

My friends all waved goodbye to me 

And I set off the world to see. 

The Sydney Opera House I viewed 

And said, “I cannot be so rude, 

“But tell them, please, they’ve got it wrong: 

I never heard a single song. 

The Opera House is wholly dumb - 

I’m quite convinced it cannot hum.’’ 

I waited there all afternoon 

But never heard a single tune. 

I hope if I return again 

It might release a short refrain. 

I asked some people passing by 

If they had ever heard it try; 

But no, they never heard it sing 

Or chant or trill or anything. 

I asked a horse as last resort. 

It answered quickly with a snort, 

“Of course the Opera House can sing. 

I hear it now. It’s practicing.” 

He started swaying to the beat, 

Then tap danced backwards down the street. 

“Quick, let’s depart! I have to flee 

Before this madness gets to me.” 

I quickly hopped it on my toes, 

But from the Opera House there rose 

An aria as sweet and soft 

As Angels singing up aloft. 

It swelled and floated even higher 

And sounded like a whole church choir. 

The music filled my heart and ears, 

And almost brought me close to tears. 

I have to tell you, come what may, 

The Opera House can sing all day; 

And I enjoyed this magic sound - 

So glad that I had stayed around! 

29


Ode to Mystery Meals 

Kimberly Hodgkinson-Spencer 

My mother fed us puke for dinner 

It’s wrapped up in this burrito shell. 


And now I’m not feeling very well. 

I told her, “This dish is disgusting!” 

But all she did was yell. 

She commanded me to eat 

Leaving it would be a waste. 

But all I could think about 

Was its nasty awful taste. 

There’s something brown and oozing 

Coming from my burrito shell. 

It’s sliding down my arm 

With a most distasteful smell. 


I can see it plain and clear. 

She leans over the table to ask, 

“Would you like another, dear?” 

My father will eat anything! 

Dead or possibly alive 

A bodily fluid or a meal this putrid. 

I can’t believe my eyes! 

Still I am sitting here starving 

But does anybody care? 

My mother holds dessert 

Ransom in the air… 

“You’ll eat your dinner or no crumbly apple tart!” 

Possibly she thinks this tactic is pretty smart 

When my little sister, snarfing her ugly meal, 

Looks at me as if to say,“Hey, what’s the big deal?” 

I whisper, “Our mother fed us puke for dinner!” 

Poking around inside her burrito shell, 

My little sister pulls out what looks like a wiggly tail. 

“How can you eat this stuff?” I wail. 

My mother scolds, “You’re such a fussy little girl!” 

My father laughs, “What? Don’t you like squirrel?” 

Now I know I am going to hurl. 

30


Do You Like … 

Mary Rand Hess 

Dog food 

Fish food 

Moo food 

Goo food 

Seafood 

Your food 

Hullabaloo food? 

Greek food 

Geek food 

Sunshine-rain food 

Silly name food 

All the same food? 

New food 

Zoo food 

Kong Fu who food? 

Fight food 

Night food 

Horror fright food? 

Serious food 

Runny food 

Oh so funny food! 

31


Back-words Walking 


One rainy, sunlit midnight day, 

with moonlight all around me, 

a starry path was walking me; 

a wandering flower found me. 

It bent and gently picked me up 

and smelled my pretty flavor. 

It put me in its pocket then 

for later on to savor. 

One flower found a buzzy bee, 

and gave it all its honey. 

And then as I was hopping by, 

I spied a watching bunny. 

The whistling trees were blowing wild; 

they blew the gentle breezes. 

The clouds above were soft and fluffy 

down around my knees-es. 

So I went home and shoveled snow. 

that day so hot and hazy, 

While autumn rained the springtime sun. 

MY BACKWARD LIFE IS CRAZY! 

32


Tea Time 

Angela Burns 

In a house too near the beach 

Where shell and sand play hide and seek 

Betsy sweeps away the mess 

And keeps her teabags neatly pressed 

She hangs her kettle on the hob 

And polishes her brass doorknob 

But when it’s time to make the tea 

She just can’t do it suddenly 

She lifts a bag, so neat and fine 

Admires each hole arranged in line 

The tiny pillow’s herbal scent 

Just seems too good for what it’s meant 

But thirst at last decides the day 

She needs that steaming cup of tay 

In pot, eyes closed, she drops it quickly 

And adds hot water, feeling sickly 

And then despite her teabag fears 

The rich aroma draws her near 

With sighs she pours and gently sips 

And Betsy’s guilt is drowned in bliss. 

33


Georgie's Pink and Perky Toes 


While paddling in the rippling brook 

Wee Georgie scratched his nose 

And gazed upon some scaly things 

That once were perky toes 

“Oh pink and perky toes, my loves!” 

The air he filled with wails, 

“How could you now desert me 

Leaving horrid, slimy scales?” 

While watching now in disbelief 

Scales multiplied in threes. 

“Oh please, oh no, don't cover up 

My lovely dimpled knees! 

“Oh tickly, tickly bottom!” 

The scales advanced abreast, 

Then gleefully raced up his tum, 

And swarmed beneath his vest. 

“Oh no, its lost, its disappeared, 

Please tell me to my face 

Where has my tummy button gone 

Of which there is no trace? 

“So beautiful, so beautiful,” 

He wailed and dabbed his eyes, 

When shell like ears did succumb 

In spite of woeful cries. 

He cast himself upon the bank, 

And sobbed and cried anew, 

For perky toes and shell like ears 

And tummy buttons too. 

“Oh mummy, dearest mummy, 

If served upon a dish, 

Would you believe that I'm your boy 

And not a blooming fish?” 

34


Pet Trees 

Geoffrey A. Landis 

I think that I shall never pat 

a tree as lovely as a cat; 

but engineering, given time, 

will breed us trees much more feline. 

Instead of bark, a silky fur, 

a tree with low and rumbling purr. 

In the future, I will bet, 

a tree will be the perfect pet. 

A pussy willow meows and begs 

While tiger lilies rub your legs. 

Dogwood trees won't howl at night, 

but bark the catwoods to a fright. 

A tree will not have fleas or lice. 

Although a tree will not chase mice, 

There is one thing that makes trees better: 

a tree does not need kitty litter. 

So one day soon (although not yet), 

a tree will be the perfect pet. 

35


Who Rhymed on Monday? 

Jen Finlayson 

Who rhymed on Monday? 

Was it you? 

That was a silly thing to do 

'Cause rhyming's out, they told me so, 

It isn't cool, and you should know. 


Was it him? 

That was exceptionally dim 

It's never done, it's not the Way, 

Not anymore; it's old, passé. 


Was it she? 

How stupid can a person be? 

They faxed a memo, silly female, 

They even sent a note by email: 

"NO RHYMES ON MONDAY!" 

So who did? 

I'll bet it was that rookie kid 

How could he know when he was hired 

A Monday-rhyme could get him fired 

Or maybe it was Jane, or Frank, 

Or mailroom Jim, just for a prank 

Or Bill, who fills the candy up 

Or Sue, who left her coffee cup 

The manager, to test our poise 

That troop of little girls and boys 

The courier who took that letter 

That lady with the Irish Setter 

Oh Someone! Someone has to know! 

What? 

It was me? 

Oh well. 

I'll go. 

36

Poems for Big Kids Animal Friends 

Animal Friends 

37


Bedtime at the Zoo 

Peter Webb 

Who reads the bedtime stories 

To the creatures at the zoo? 

Who roars them to each lion? 

Who speaks kangaroo? 

And if there were a reader, 

What story would they tell? 

Would a tale fit for a tiger 

Please a rhinoceros as well? 

Tell the tigers darkling tales 

Of jungles green as jade, 

And hungry eyes that glitter 

In the dusky twilit shade. 

The rhino would prefer to hear 

Of skies like clear blue glass, 

And great wide plains that undulate 

Like endless seas of grass. 

But might there be some creatures 

Who dream about the new? 

Of places foreign to them, 

And things they could not do? 

Perhaps the anaconda 

Who slithers softly in the dark, 

Would enjoy the sprightly stories 

Of songbirds like the lark. 

What do the two humped camels see, 

When they close their ebon eyes? 

The ice-bright land where penguins dwell? 

Their aurora-curtained skies? 

Do they call out, the soft koalas, 

High in eucalyptus trees 

For tales of fish and coral 

From Caribbean seas? 

But they have no storyteller, 

The camel, snake and bear. 

For at night the zoos are empty. 

No books, or readers there. 

38


So when the day begins to fade, 

And the zoo prepares for bed, 

Perhaps you could be the reader, 

And share the stories in your head. 

Roar tales that please the lion, 

Speak or sing in kangaroo. 

Who reads them bedtime stories? 

When you sleep and dream, you do. 

Advice on the Groundhog 

Sally Cook 

The fat ground hog within his hole 

Is wintering, just like the mole. 

And yet we miss his lumbering tread, 

And how he chews the flower bed. 

If wakened early, he gets grumpy, 

No matter if his bed is lumpy. 

His eye is sharp, his teeth are pearly - 

It wouldn’t do to wake him early. 

An Echo 

Gord Braun 

There once was a frustrated bird 

That fought with an echo it heard. 

It twittered all night, 

But try as it might 

It couldn't get in the last word. 

39


Second Chance 

Susan Eckenrode 

He came to us by happenstance 

and Lori named him Second Chance 

“because he needed one”, she’d say. 

That puppy stole our hearts that day. 

His coat was filthy, caked with mud; 

his open wounds still seeping blood 

and yet his tail said, “Come and play!” 


His big brown beagle eyes could see 

into my soul, it seemed to me, 

as if to ask, “Please let me stay.” 


He came to us by happenstance. 

This puppy owns our hearts today. 

Jellumbungo 


My cat Jellumbungo 

Is pretty near fantastic, 

He reaches out a dainty paw 

And stretches like elastic. 

He curls up on a cushion 

In a tiny little ball, 

But when he leaps to catch a bird 

He’s nearly three feet tall. 

40


My Kitty Cat 

Ryan Gibbs 

My kitty cat is black and white. 

She sleeps all day and plays all night. 

At dawn she knows when to be fed 

And walks atop my sleepy head. 

Once she finally gets her food, 

She soon adopts a happy mood. 

Then in the chair she likes the best, 

She stretches out to take a rest. 

When the watchful sun fades away, 

Kitty knows it’s time to play. 

She hunts me down throughout the house 

As though I were a hiding mouse. 

She bats my pen and starts to fight, 

Making it hard for me to write. 

When I at last can take no more, 

She hits my pen across the floor. 

I go to bed and start to doze, 

With kitty nibbling at my toes. 

She licks my feet to makes amends, 

Letting me know we are still friends. 

Sven’s Pen 

Janis Butler Holm 

Lucille has a tomcat named Sven 

who snoozes on top of her pen. 

When Lucille wants to write, 

Sven puts up a fight-- 

Lucille's writing with pencil again! 

41


42


A Fishy Tale 

Catherine Edmunds 

What are you doing, pet? 

Why do you knit? 

I'm making some gloves Mum. 

D'ye think that they'll fit? 

Depends who they're for dear - 

They look rather small. 

They're for a wee fishy; 

He's not very tall. 

A fish? For a fish, love? 

Now what on earth for? 

The sea's very cold, Mum, 

I've stood on the shore; 

I've felt the wind blowing, 

I've smelled the sea air. 

The fish must be freezing 

If they all live there. 

Well yes dear, that's true love, 

I'll grant you that. 

But why knit some gloves dear; 

Why not a hat? 

Oh Mum, don't be stupid - 

Their heads are too flat. 

Gloves are more useful. 

Even I know that. 

I've seen their cold fingers 

Like ice on a dish, 

And that's why I'm making 

Some gloves for a fish. 

43


Panda Moanium 

Graeme King 

I'm black and white, it isn't right... 

I'd rather pink or green; 

or maybe several shades of red 

with yellow in between? 

I eat bamboos and live in zoos 

they feed me every day; 

the people laugh and take my pic 

I roll around and play. 

My memories of life in trees 

have faded dim with age; 

And now I call it "Home sweet home" 

my concrete Panda cage. 

They send me mates in wooden crates 

I think that's rather rude; 

I'd rather be all by myself 

and eat up all the food. 

A bear with cheek was here this week 

she said: "I'm Chi" and winked; 

and then she broke the awful news 

that soon we'll be extinct! 

So if you choose to visit zoos 

and see us Panda bears, 

please wake me up if I'm asleep 

and tell me someone cares! 

44


Warts 

Dick Buenger 

I saw a toad beside the road. 

He hopped behind a tree. 

I sat real still and waited 'til 

He didn't notice me. 

And then I slid to where he hid 

And cupped my hands to jump. 

He saw me first and out he burst 

And landed on a stump. 

He smiled at me most merrily 

And never blinked an eye. 

He showed no fear as I inched near 

To have another try. 

I would attack behind his back 

If all went as I planned. 

So with a "Whoop" I made my scoop 

And had him in my hand. 

So happy with my new-found pet 

My fingers held him, tight. 

Without a doubt he'd not jump out 

He lay as dead with fright. 

He wore all sorts of ugly warts 

Which made me lose my grip. 

He stretched with glee each leg set free, 

Then gave a sudden flip, 

Without a fault, a somersault, 

And landed 'cross the road. 

He paused to croak this nasty joke, 

"Grow warts - you touched a toad!" 

45


46


The Moose 

Neil Harding McAlister 

Wise woodsmen who wander the wilds way up north 

Make friends with a gangly beast 

Who sups in the swamps where the slime-weeds spring forth, 

Knee-deep in his succulent feast. 

With soulful, brown eyes and a big, bulbous nose 

The Moose gives them nothing to dread. 

They use him for hat racks and hanging up clothes, 

His antlers obligingly spread. 

They serve him sweet strawberry smoothies to sip, 

And seat him upon a settee. 

The Moose guards their garments, and garners a tip 

From guests who depart after tea. 

Go pester your parents to purchase a Moose -- 

The perfect new pet for your home! 

And if they’re reluctant, accept no excuse: 

It’s something each family should own! 

Bookworm 

Madelyn Rosenberg 

I am a little bookworm 

A find-a-little-nook worm. 

Sometimes it isn't easy being me. 

I’ve no fingers to turn pages 

So I've marked this spot for ages. 

Someone please tell me what happens 

After page one-twenty-three! 

47


Sitting On The Ceiling 

Linda A. Anderson 

Think what it would be like 

to be a tiny fly, 

sitting on the ceiling 

watching life zip by; 

taking the occasional 

spin around the room, 

always having fly spirits, 

never feeling gloom. 

You would spend your whole day 

high up above the floor 

waiting for the moment 

you can eat some more. 

Sticky footed wanderings 

upon every shelf–- 

come across some tasty crumb 

too small for an elf. 

After you have fed yourself 

to full capacity, 

time has come to study 

fly philosophy: 

crawl across the countertops, 

soar back overhead; 

take a rest and dream of food 

in your ceiling bed. 

Your life would be so simple 

way above the crowds: 

down to eat, then back up high–- 

mom would be so proud. 

Life would be so carefree 

as the house mascot-- 

just so no one comes along 

to give you a swat! 

48


Cecil the Three Toed Sloth 

Graeme King 

Cecil was a three-toed sloth, he ate a lot of leaves, 

And sometimes found a beehive full of honey. 

Cecil lived a happy life, except for just one thing: 

Every time he talked it sounded funny. 

“Hi, I’m Thethil the three-toed thloth!” he’d say and make a bow, 

whenever someone new would venture near; 

and he had lots of visitors, they called round all the time, 

‘cos Cecil’s words were what they liked to hear. 

“Thank you for the thcarlet thcarf, I think ith very nyth.” 

(His visitor would laugh under his breath.) 

“How come that every prethent I rethieve from vithitorth 

ith thomething that mutht alwayth thtart with eth? 

“You’d think I’d get thum thimpathy, but I can thee their game, 

athide from thtopping by to thay good day; 

they think that thiopping for thum things that thtart with letter eth 

will give me theveral thententheth to thay… 

“I never get a handkerchief, I alwaith get thum thockth, 

thum chocolate would be good, but thadly, no… 

They thiower me with thethamee theedth and thpythee thothage 

thlitheth, 

I thank them for the prethenth, then they go. 

“If only I could find a friend who wouldn’t find it weird 

the way my teeth and tongue are in a meth; 

we’d have thuch fun and hang around and never, ever talk, 

and, if we did, we’d never mention eth!” 

49


50


Backyard Blues 

Byron D. Howell 

I used to feed two squirrels in the yard - 

in six short months I trained them both too well. 

To earn their trust took love but wasn't hard. 

I called them, they would come - and all was swell. 

I never missed one day in six months time. 

They ate too well and even gained some weight. 

Some warned me feeding them should be a crime - 

that I should stop before it was too late. 

There's something to be said for let it be. 

I earned their trust in six months time, it's true. 

They must have thought all men were just like me, 

they thought it wise to trust some others, too. 

I meant well, yes - but made a big mistake. 

Some think of them as pests, not friends to make. 

How Doth the Little 

Subway Mouse 

Jen Finlayson 

How doth the little subway mouse 

Improve the shining track 

And wear the colours of his house 

Upon his sooty back 

How cheerfully he hunts for crumbs 

How neatly winks his eye 

And dreams while all the city drums 

Its endless lullaby 

51


To Catch a Rabbit 

Joanne Underwood 

They said to write a little bit 

About the Easter Bunny; 

They also said the kids would like 

It more if it were funny. 

They also mentioned eggs and chicks 

And chocolates galore 

And eating candy till you drop 

And then still wanting more. 

They said that I could write about 

What fun it is to find 

Baskets full of eggs and stuff 

The Bunny leaves behind. 

So here I am, and here I go; 

I really cannot fail; 

I’m going to start right here to write 

My little Bunny tale. 

Did I say “Bunny tale?” Oh gee, 

I guess it would appear 

That “Bunny tail” is what I meant— 

That funny little rear 

That bobbles up and bobbles down 

When Bunny hops on by; 

His great big feet and loppy ears 

Can really help him fly. 

He bustles here and bustles there; 

His nose is all aquiver; 

And if you offer rabbit stew 

To me, I’ll cry a river; 

For you can speak of cats and dogs 

And gerbils, I don’t care; 

When voting for my favourite pet, 

It’s bunnies—by a HARE! 

52


Playful Pups 

James Kassam McAlister 

Man’s best companion, 

Adorable balls of fur, 

Tumbling across the floor. 

These pets prefer 

To woof at the door! 

Shoes they quickly fetch, 

And bones they hungrily chew, 

Wagging their short tails. 

I haven’t got a clue 

Why they scratch with their nails. 

Expressions tell tales. 

Prize possessions pets, 

Paw prints on the snow, 

Like ballerinas, they pirouette 

For bits of Oreo. 

As playful as children, 

Their feet are on the go, 

Wriggling their floppy ears. 

The ball you throw 

Is fetched with cheer! 

Bounce and pounce on mice, 

Chased by hissing cats, 

At night when all is quiet 

They sleep on pillows and mats, 

Opposite of raucous riot. 

53


Feral Friends 

Graeme King 

Toby Tiger twitched his tail, said “I don’t wish to boast. 

I’ve by far the cutest, cleanest claws; 

See! I keep them beautiful for buttering my toast, 

How I dislike a cat with dirty paws!” 

Matt the Monkey nodded, said “Bad breath I can’t abide, 

Brush my teeth at least ten times a day; 

When there’s drought, the toothpaste keeps me feeling full inside, 

Furthermore it’s found to fight decay!” 

Harry Hippo hiccupped, said “Come on, for Heaven’s sake, 

Now I need to talk of tummy troubles; 

I must watch my diet, I can’t stand a stomach ache, 

Clear the pool if I start to blow bubbles!” 

Cecil Sloth said “You all think that I am lax and lazy, 

Hanging from the branches like a tourist; 

I have three toes on each foot, and long nails drive me crazy, 

Every day I need a manicurist!” 

Gale Gorilla gaped and cried, “You think that is a chore? 

What I have to do each day is scary; 

Beauty parlor, nine o’clock, still there at half past four, 

I can’t help it if I’m rather hairy!” 

Sally Skunk then shook her stripes, said “I don’t like to sulk, 

You think you have it badly, but I know; 

None of you go out and buy deodorants in bulk – 

I do! I have permanent B.O!” 

Timmy Tortoise tittered, said “You think you have it bad? 

I walk all day as fast as my legs will; 

By night I’ve gone a hundred yards, I know it’s rather sad, 

One hundred twenty, if it’s all downhill!” 

So every day, these feral friends, with tantrums, tears and tales, 

Told each other stories sad and sappy. 

If you happen on them with their whining and their wails, 

Don’t pity them, they’re simply being happy! 

54


My Berry Loving Dog 


I had a berry loving dog 

Who’d stay beside me in the bog 

We’d pick together by a log 

But he became obsessed 

Sometimes he’d leave without a trace 

A silly smile upon his face 

He’d come back later, a disgrace 

An icky, sticky mess 

He blended with the scenery 

Fur dotted with berry debris 

His tummy full of fricassee 

He ate with such ‘finesse’ 

One day he bogged down in the mud 

Just fell down with a mighty thud 

He lay there chewing on his cud 

A picture of largess 

I pulled him out, the lazy lout 

“You dirty dog,” I gave a shout 

He hung his head down in a pout 

And did not seem impressed 

I had to tie him to a tree 

There listen to his plaintive plea 

So I could pick laboriously 

Collect with some success 

I later risked his doggy scorn 

Perhaps a pant leg to be torn 

Off leash he’d bound looking forlorn 

As if he were oppressed 

When we’d go home, he’d hang his head 

Lay down and pout in the back shed 

Just wait until he could be fed 

Baking he loved no less 

He’d stand and drool at the back door 

Making a puddle on the floor 

He’d whine and pine a little more 

‘Til he was in distress 

55


I gave him pies. I gave him buns 

I let him eat ‘til they were done 

And now he weighs a mighty ton 

I fed him to excess 

So now my berry loving dog 

Can’t even go out for a jog 

He looks as big as a fat hog 

It’s all my fault, I guess 

Bee on my Nose 

R. Wayne Edwards 

Oh little bee 

There on my nose, 

You want to sting, 

I do suppose. 

It is your rose 

I must agree… 

Did not see you, 

Oh little bee. 

I wanted only 

One small sniff, 

And not to cause 

This little tiff. 

You stand there in 

That wicked crouch… 

You won’t sting me? 

OUCH, OUCH, OUCH, OUCH! 

56


Guinea Pigs 


Soft and lazy 

Balls of fur, 

Guinea Pigs 

Will hardly stir. 

Exercise? 

They cannot bear it, 

Unless to fetch 

A nice, fresh carrot. 

Twitching noses, 

Shining eyes, 

Looks of 

Permanent surprise 

Greet the day 

With peals of glee 

When each morning 

They see me. 

Do they really 

Miss their masters? 

Maybe it’s just 

Food they’re after. 

Piggies’ brains 

Are very small. 

Maybe they 

Can’t think at all, 

And life’s just 

One scary muddle 

‘Til they get 

Their evening cuddle. 

Questions only 

Cause us grief. 

I’ll suspend 

My disbelief, 

And pretend 

Dependency 

Is a sign 

These pets love me. 

57


58


Terry Termite 

Graeme King 

Terry Termite staggered home, but not the worse for drink. 

He'd been across the road - a brand new house, all pretty pink. 

He'd licked his lips and thought about the nice new flavors there. 

A new house here in Terry's neighborhood was rather rare! 

He'd crept in through the garden and ignored a pile of sticks. 

His mind on something tastier, he squeezed between two bricks. 

The wall space was as black as coal, but who had need of light? 

One didn't need to see when one was simply gonna bite! 

He'd clambered round the termite trap - a silly Council law - 

entire colonies of ants could enter by the door! 

He knew all these inventions, that the humans deemed so good 

would never stop a termite with an appetite for wood! 

So, walking in the dark, he felt his way along the wall. 

He figured he was somewhere 'tween the kitchen and the hall; 

and there - the main support beam - simply begging to be ate! 

He saw it in the gloom and then began to salivate. 

He blew the dust away to bare the yummy feast beneath, 

and then he opened up his mouth, to use his termite teeth, 

then bit down on the main support, the tasty hardwood beam; 

but as his teeth all cracked he knew things weren't the way they seem. 

That's why he came home staggering, in need of dental care. 

He found the nest and muttered words like "Danger" and "Beware!" 

Old Wally White Ant nodded. He was older, and had nous: 

"That serves you right for trying to eat a nice, new steel-framed 

house!" 

59


Nuts and Bolts 

Peter Austin 

I bought a horse; his name was Shay. 

I gave him chicken soup; 

He tossed his head and answered, “Nay!” 

And then he flew the coop. 

I tried a griddled albacore 

With peppercorns and lime; 

He kicked apart the stable door 

And ran a second time. 

Then, “Nuts!” said I, and found a store 

That trafficked in brazils; 

This time, he stuffed his gut, before 

He headed for the hills. 

Although I must admit I’ve known 

Some pretty kooky colts, 

A horse I never thought I’d own 

That lives on nuts and bolts. 

Scat Cat! 

Sonja Kershaw 

Said the child to the cat: 

"Scat, black cat! Away from me! 

Old black cat, don't cross my way! 

You are bad luck for me, you see. 

Scat, black cat! Just go away!" 

Said the cat to the child: 

"Why do you hate the color black? 

What sort of harm can black fur do? 

Love me and rub my silky back, 

And I'll return your love to you!" 

60


61


Emperor Penguin 

She 

I met an Emperor penguin once, 

He was a handsome feller. 

He wore a smart black full length coat, 

white shirt -- his tie was yeller. 

He said they stand around in pairs, 

(The Arctic's is not known for chairs), 

and to make sure that their eggs won't freeze 

they tuck them up beneath their knees. 

Sometimes while skidding on the ice 

he thinks some sunshine would be nice -- 

cries, "I don't want to be a skater! 

I'm dressed up to be a waiter!" 

Squirrel Nutcase 

She 

West coast squirrels look well dressed, 

Although they are arboreal. 

In grey fur coats and off-white vests, 

They’re fetchingly sartorial. 

That high in trees they're acrobatic, 

There are no "ifs" or "buts." 

But on the ground they're quite erratic - 

They've all mislaid their nuts. 

Bushy tailed, small hands on chests, 

standing, knowing they look cute, 

They're still panhandling little pests, 

So just forget the fancy suit. 

62

Poems for Big Kids The Moral of the Story 

The Moral 

of the Story 

63


64


The U.S.S. Delusion 

Peter G. Gilchrist 

The U.S.S. Delusion was the largest in the fleet, 

Her Captain, the most arrogant commander you could meet. 

His ship would not yield right-of-way to any on the seas, 

Her passage would be anywhere her strutting Captain pleased. 

One night the fog descended and removed the seas from sight. 

The radar operator watched a “blip” disturb the night. 

The “blip” lay dead ahead, and merely seven miles away: 

If neither ship changed course then likely both would rue the day. 

The Captain barked an order that demanded a reply, 

“Ahoy there, unknown vessel, would you please identify?” 

The unknown ship responded on the crackling wireless band, 

“We are Canadian Coast Guard. Is your Captain close at hand?” 

The Captain grabbed the microphone and yelled into the night, 

“Direct your vessel starboard. Tell your skipper that’s his right!” 

The Coast Guard’s cool reply was unexpected, if polite: 

“Request you change direction, Sir, we have you in our sight.” 

The Captain couldn’t fathom why the Coast Guard wouldn’t turn. 

His face flushed red as fire as if his skin was going to burn. 

He growled into the microphone, a snarl upon his lip, 

”You have a choice to make,” he said. “Change course or lose your 

ship!” 

A silence fell upon the bridge. The “blip” did not change course. 

The Captain grabbed the mike again, ‘though he was getting hoarse. 

“Change course at once!” he ordered, “We demand the right of way. 

If you don’t change direction you’ll be swimming ‘fore the day.” 

The calm response was clearly one that he did not expect: 

“We won’t be moving, Sir, although we mean no disrespect. 

Perhaps we should have mentioned this (we just assumed you knew), 

We are a lighthouse, Sir, which means it’s really up to you.” 

65


Harvesting 

Myra Stilborn 

The binder dropped the stalks of wheat, untied... 

A scattered mess, that stifling August day. 

My father stopped the team, stepped down, and sighed. 

The crop was ripe, and town was far away. 

Removing bolts, he found a broken piece 

That kept the needle from its special work. 

He grabbed some haywire; that, and elbow grease 

Soon had the old machine all set to perk. 

Up through the years, this memory nudges me 

When routine chores meet unexpected halt. 

I seek the reason, then use patiently 

Something at hand to remedy the fault. 

What joy to move into the field again, 

Releasing well-bound sheaves of ripened grain! 

Look to Your Dream 


Look to your dream; reach out and touch the skies. 

Let nothing fight your drive to carry on. 

Don’t ever let your spirit drown or die. 

So will you walk ahead; you must be strong. 

In every child there is a little light, 

So leave the darkest nights and come away. 

The sun will light our souls, and make them bright. 

We will come through, we’ll make a better day. 

And when it’s tough remember, say a prayer, 

Then you will never walk your path alone, 

And in your heart, know always, someone’s there 

To help you grow and come into your own. 

So shine dear child, you are a shining star; 

So shine dear child, and cast your light afar. 

66


Pirate Pete 

Graeme King 

A drunken pirate staggered through the doorway of a bar. 

He yelled for ale, and then began to sing: 

"My Treasure Island's wall to wall with gold and riches, aaarrggh! 

I dream of all the pleasure it will bring!" 

The crowd all laughed at Pirate Pete, a tale they'd heard before. 

This pirate was a joke, a drunken dog. 

He always sung of shipwreck on a gold-infested shore, 

then drifting back to safety on a log. 

A Londoner, a stranger, pricked his ears to hear the tale. 

He waited till the pirate stopped to scratch, 

then sat down right beside him with a flagon full of ale. 

He poured two tankards, looked him in the patch. 

"You know the briny backwards, sailed to seven seas and back? 

Seen treasure of the kind that makes men weep? 

I'll help you find your treasure, man, if funds are all you lack." 

But sadly, Pete the Pirate was asleep. 

The stranger shook him roughly, "Don't you want to hear my deal?" 

The pirate opened up his one good eye, 

"Nobody here," he slurred, "Believes my Treasure Island's real." 

"There's one who does," the stranger said. "'Tis I!" 

"’Tis far too late for me," the pirate grinned with toothy gap, 

"'Twould need a man with money and a ship; 

a man with pluck to follow this here buried treasure map" - 

a faded parchment there within his grip. 

"I have a ship, she's riding here at anchor, fit to sail, 

she's old but fast, with many vessels worse. 

Now let me see your map and let me pour another ale." 

The pirate answered, "Let me see your purse." 

The sun was hot and glaring and the pirate blinked his eye - 

its angle told a time of way past noon - 

remembering the stranger who believed his drunken lie, 

and given him a shiny gold doubloon. 

A whole doubloon! He grinned, this year there'd be no need to beg, 

'twas ages since he'd seen this princely sum. 

He tried to click his heels - a clever stunt, with wooden leg - 

then headed for the tavern and some rum. 

67


"Pour drinks for all me mateys!" as he slumped upon a stool. 

"Good on you, Pete," the barman said aloud, 

"You sold another useless map, you found another fool." 

"Ha Haaaarrggh!" laughed Pete, "There's one in every crowd!" 

Boomerang 

Peter Austin 

“I’ll feed and clean it, pinky swear!” 

“You will?” “I promise!” … “Oh, all right.” 

We bought the one with tousled hair 

And chuckled at its overbite. 

She bore it homeward, in a box, 

With me behind her, crimson hued, 

Encumbered, like a hapless ox, 

By bottle, bedding, cage and food.... 

We’ve owned it, now, for several weeks, 

And I’ve become its keeper: yes, 

The labour’s mine that fills its cheeks, 

And clips its nails, and cleans its mess. 

A dozen times, I’ve nearly said, 

“Get busy, or the gerbil’s toast!” 

But something’s turned my tongue to lead – 

A long departed gerbil’s ghost, 

That, once, I swore to nurture – me! – 

And did so, for a week or more, 

Until it lost its novelty 

And gained the designation, “chore.” 

So, now, I handle chow and muck 

Without a hint of a harangue. 

My daughter thinks she’s passed the buck, 

But I know it’s a boomerang. 

68


Dragon Quest 

Graeme King 

The village people gathered in the square, 

and heard the crier tell them in despair: 

"The King is dying now, his race is run - 

but as you're all aware - he has no son!" 

Well, soon the word had sped throughout the town, 

a quest was there, for one to wear the crown: 

To best the dragon in his mountain cave, 

would prove him worthy, faithful, true and brave! 

The shaking of the heads was sad to see, 

as one by one the young men said: "not me..." 

but one young peasant nodded, pressed his luck, 

the tailor's youngest son - the rascal Puck. 

As Puck strode off, the townsfolk cheered him on, 

then dug his grave as soon as he was gone, 

they carved Puck's epitaph upon a post: 

"We sent a boy, got back a piece of toast!" 

Now, dragons were a match for mortal man, 

but Puck knew this and had a cunning plan, 

he couldn't beat the fire in dragon's throat, 

so sent the scaly man-eater a note. 

On Whitsunday, he strode into the court, 

displayed the dragon's treasure he had brought, 

acclaimed by all the bravest they had known, 

Puck took his rightful place upon the throne. 

So, good King Puck ruled with a loving hand, 

and everyone was happy in the land, 

the dragon? He was happy too, you see, 

and living in the castle, secretly! 

Puck's note had said that soon times would be tough, 

as men invented gunpowder and stuff, 

no dragon would be safe, they'd all be tracked, 

far better if they signed a secret pact. 

The dragon knew that Puck was quite a sage, 

he needed somewhere safe for his old age, 

they both got what they wanted, all was sweet, 

and now the castle's warmed by central heat! 

69


70


The Far Side of the Fence 


The dairy herd was gathered 

Near the fence one summer day. 

Young Gerty to the other calves 

Was overheard to say, 

“The grass on Farmer Potter’s side 

Is greener than our own. 

His cows must feast all winter long 

On hay that he has grown.” 

Old Bossy shook her head and mooed, 

“It’s better to stay home. 

Who knows what’s on the other side? 

It’s dangerous to roam.” 

But Gerty stomped and pawed the ground. 

She knew what she would do. 

She found a space between two posts, 

And managed to squeeze through. 

When evening came, the herd returned 

For milking in the barn; 

And Farmer Jones was short one calf, 

So he raised an alarm! 

Then Jones, his son and Rex, their dog 

Went searching high and low. 

Jones phoned the neighbors all around 

To see if they would know. 

A few days passed. They found no trace 

Of Gerty, dead or live, 

’Til Farmer Potter wheeled his truck 

Up Farmer Jones’s drive. 

Poor Potter stood there, cap in hand, 

His face looked sad and pained. 

“Is something wrong, old friend?” Jones asked, 

And Potter then explained: 

“The story I’m about to tell 

Is pretty grim, but true. 

The long and short – I have a debt 

That I must pay to you. 

71


“I went to town the other day 

And left my kids in charge 

When fellers from the slaughterhouse 

Fetched cattle from our yard. 

“I thought that they had paid too much -- 

More money than they’d said. 

But they are sure their count was right: 

They took one extra head. 

“I know that wanderin’ calf of yours 

Was never meant for veal. 

A stupid accident, it was. 

You know I wouldn’t steal.” 

With that, he pressed some money 

Into Farmer Jones’s hand. 

Jones said, “I thank you, neighbor, ‘cuz 

You are an honest man.” 

Out in the field, old Bossy sighed, 

That young cow had no sense. 

The grass is always greener on 

The far side of the fence. 

A Right Time and a Wrong Time 

to be Lazy 

Byron D. Howell 

There came a time to put my toys away, 

to choose a path and try to be a man; 

to do as much as I could with my day, 

to live my life and do the best I can. 

Before this time, I was so immature 

I had no use for goals or true success; 

though I had dreams of fortune and grandeur, 

without a plan, my life became a mess. 

As soon as I learned how to move ahead, 

despite the fact I like to take it slow, 

that's when I earned the butter for my bread. 

Today, look out when I am on the go! 

My idle time robbed me of self-esteem. 

Today I earn the right to rest and dream. 

72


Ambition 

Cathy Bryant 

On my tenth birthday, after tea, 

And cards and cake and family, 

My Aunt Matilda asked of me, 

"When you grow up, what will you be? 

A pop star singing funky tunes? 

Astronomer, observing moons? 

A poet, an immortal bard!" 

I thought about it long and hard. 

A doctor healing hurts and pains? 

A glazier mending window panes? 

Or a mechanic, changing tyres, 

Or a fire-fighter fighting fires? 

A dancer, light upon my feet? 

A farmer growing sugar beet? 

So many ways to pay my dues! 

But how am I supposed to choose? 

An astronaut in deepest space, 

An athlete winning every race, 

A teacher sending kids to sleep, 

A parent with a house to keep; 

A driver out upon the road, 

A spy who speaks in secret code, 

A baker baking cakes and bread 

to keep the happy children fed? 

A botanist smelling the flowers, 

A watchmaker creating hours, 

A pianist that all come to hear? 

Then suddenly it all was clear - 

"My Aunt Matilda, now I see 

Exactly what I want to be. 

For a future of pure heaven 

What I want to be is ELEVEN." 

73


The Country Mouse 

in the Court of the Rat-King 

Phillip A. Ellis 

Upon a humble farm, a mouse 

set out to make his name 

by joining the Rat-King’s shield guards, 

to fight for truth and fame. 

He bore a keen and cutting blade 

of grass to trounce his foes, 

and shoes of pussy-willow fluff 

to warm his mousy toes. 

With rose-petal for floppy hat 

(for so fashion decreed!) 

and vest of spider-silk, he looked 

a dashing mouse indeed! 

And when he left, both family 

and friends from far and near, 

all wished him health, success and wealth, 

with dew-wine crisp and clear. 

He rode upon his trusty steed-- 

a snail, slow but true-- 

out of his rustic valley home 

far from his mother’s view. 

For weary leagues and days he rode 

(to count them all would bore), 

and many nippy nights as well 

until his bum was sore. 

And finally, the humble mouse 

arrived before the gate 

that led to where the Rat-King sat 

upon his throne in state. 

There, fierce and brave, with oakleaf glaive, 

twin hamsters preened, on guard, 

spake thus to mouse: "Oi, bumpkin boy, 

go park it in the yard." 

"Sir hamsters both," said country mouse, 

"I’ve ridden day and night, 

to serve thy glorious Rat-King, and 

become, like thee, a knight." 

74


"There’s but one way," one hamster said, 

"By fighting a fierce foe, 

who bites and smites each Tuesday night, 

with whiskers, teeth, and woe." 

"’Tis Tuesday now," the brave mouse spake, 

"I’ll show my mettle true: 

show me the way this selfsame day, 

so I may trounce it true." 

And so was mousy brought before 

the Rat-Kind where he ate 

a dainty dish of poppy seeds 

and pondered cruellest fate. 

Around him, rat-maids calico 

all swooned in sweet delight 

because the country mouse was such 

a brave and dashing sight. 

And there, beside the Rat-King, sat 

a princess fair and sweet, 

a beautiful, sweet squirrel maid 

whose heart swift missed a beat. 

The mouse, he bowed before the King, 

and squeaked, "Your Majesty, 

I’ve come to drive away the beast 

that brings thee misery." 

"Brave mouse," the Rat-King squeaked in turn, 

"I wish thee well this day, 

for none--alas--of my dear folk 

could drive this woe away!" 

Around the hall, the mouse espied 

a throng of noble folk-- 

a dormouse napped, a muskrat thought, 

a gerbil jester joked. 

He saw a mighty lemming jarl 

who said: "I came to fight 

this vexing pest that plagues the King-- 

let’s stand as one tonight!" 

And lemming proffered mouse his paw, 

they shook as brothers right, 

and swore: "Come death with demon breath, 

we stand as knight and knight." 

75


And so, through banquet, song and dance, 

the hours turned and sped, 

the night lay down upon the earth, 

carousers went to bed. 

Then, like death’s slinking shadow vast 

that swallows thin and fat, 

into the hall thence crept the foe-- 

a fierce and fearsome cat! 

Up leapt the mouse with cutting blade 

and naught a trace of fear, 

yet that murrain broke it in twain, 

and licked from ear to ear. 

Sir lemming raced across to save 

his newfound, truefound friend 

from turning into kitty food-- 

O sad, O evil end! 

But cat was cunning, slick with claw: 

it pinned poor lemming down, 

licking its lips again with glee, 

with naught one look around. 

Brave mouse, he roared, and leapt and soared, 

and ripped a whisker out 

of pestful cat that grinned and sat, 

making it twist and shout! 

Away thus raced the cat in pain, 

to plague the court no more, 

for ever since, it dines on fish 

it finds by far seashore. 

Did mousy brave become a knight? 

Well let me say just this: 

sweet squirrel princess and prince mouse 

now live in wedded bliss, 

and through the land, to low and grand, 

the voles all tell this tale, 

except, instead of whiskers pulled, 

they claim it was a tail. 

76


Pizza Pete 

Graeme King 

Peter loved his pizza, and he ate one every day, 

with pepperoni anchovies - too much! 

but jalapeño mushrooms were his favorite, I would say, 

(and olives, bacon, beef and eggs and such). 

Some nights he'd hit the pizza store and watch with avid eyes 

as pastry twirled and toppings towered tall. 

He’d order such a masterpiece, they'd marvel at the size 

as Pete sat there and ate it - box and all! 

On other nights he'd use the phone, and took a huge delight 

in ordering a "Pete's Enormous Thing," 

then sit in trepidation hoping they would cook it right, 

and wait impatient for the bell to ring. 

One night he looked out of the window up into the sky. 

The moon was full and shone its silver rain; 

but Peter saw it as a huge, translucent pizza pie. 

A great idea formed inside his brain. 

He spoke to all the cooks down at the pizza store next day. 

He asked for something never seen before: 

a pizza topped with everything, and piled the Peter way - 

The Lot, Supreme, Monstera and some more! 

Tomato sauce was spread, then pepperonis, chilies, cheese, 

bananas and some mushrooms, herbs and rice; 

then ham and apples, pine nuts and some broccoli and peas, 

potato, pumpkin and a salmon slice. 

Then prawns were layered, topped with garlic, olives and some nuts, 

and up this pizza rose, a wonder wall! 

As Peter watched it climb he felt a longing in his guts - 

no pizza ever had been built so tall! 

A fork lift truck delivered it to Peter's place that night. 

He saw it on his kitchen bench and smiled, 

then opened wide to get each of the flavors in one bite. 

This pizza mountain promised to be wild. 

And then he tried to swallow - and the giant pizza stuck! 

It lodged in Peter's windpipe, gripped like glue. 

This pizza king had run right out of greedy, hungry luck, 

and slowly Peter's face turned vivid blue. 

77


So, never look for extras. What you get in life is cool. 

Be satisfied with what it throws at you. 

Don't be a Pizza Pete, unless you want to be a fool, 

and try to bite off more than you can chew. 

The Poet’s Life 

Gregory Christiano 

When this hard day's work is finished, 

An' all seems hushed an' still, 

'Cept the soft an' gentle murmur 

Of the little muddied rill, 

When the great round sun has vanished, 

In a sea of red an' gold, 

Everything looks like a picture 

That's taken from Nature's mould. 

It is then my proudest moment 

As I sit surveyin' all 

With my dear ole pipe agoin' 

When the twilight shadows fall. 

I sit alone an' dreamin' 

Of those days that's dead an' gone, 

When I was a little fellow 

'Bout half as tall as that corn. 

Runnin' round half clothed,but happy 

'Tending to my father's cows, 

Never dreamin' of the future 

As I'd sit an' watch 'em browse. 

All these things come to my mem'ry 

As I sit surveyin' all 



In our small an' cozy kitchen 

My wife's a-workin' round, 

Clearing up the supper dishes, 

An' their sharp and clinking sound, 

Seems to have some sort o' music 

That is very soft an' sweet 

An' I often fall to rhymin', 

Sitting on this garden seat. 

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Everything seems full of po'try 

As I sit surveyin' all, 

With my dear old pipe agoin' 


I could linger here forever, 

Stringin' po'try, but my wife 

Says that all these modern poets 

Live a sort of humdrum life. 

But this life that I'm aleadin' 

Is just fit for any king, 

An' I'd bet he'd swap his fortune 

For a taste of this calm spring. 

"This is my little kingdom," 

I have thought surveyin' all 



Lessons for Kids – Crossing Streets 

jgdittier 

Listen my children, I’ll mention a bird 

who flits without looking, that bird is a nerd! 

At corners of streets are pedestrian lanes, 

looking both ways means you’re using your brains. 

That bird from the woods who is flighty and flip 

is the jay that is blue, as ‘tween cars he will whip. 

So if you dislike your bones broken in two, 

cross at the corner, JAYWALKING won’t do! 

79


Bogey Man Bogus 

Graeme King 

If scaring little children is so easy 

Then why on Earth are bogey men so huge? 

And why can't monsters come out in the daytime? 

Why wait till dark to ply their subterfuge? 

That thing under your bed must be a coward, 

It needs to wait till bedtime to cause strife, 

Invisible all day and when the light's on? 

How could that be a nice productive life? 

Take witches - they are all afraid of water, 

Yet they can make a spell to part the sea? 

Perhaps this aqua phobia's all acting, 

So they get out of bathing frequently. 

If trolls are so ferocious, mean and hungry - 

Why do they always hide beneath a bridge? 

They're big and strong enough to bash the door in, 

And help themselves to what's inside the fridge! 

A dragon breathes his fire and burns up heroes, 

But honestly, he's such a greedy guy, 

For why guard all those gems and gold and treasure 

When there is not a thing he wants to buy? 

And vampires only sleep inside their coffins? 

They try and tell us they're the living dead, 

But really, they could change shape every morning 

And fly away a bat, back home to bed! 

The next time something scuffles in the darkness, 

Or shadows come together, start to creep, 

Don't waste your dreaming time upon the monsters, 

Roll over, close your eyes and go to sleep! 

80


81


Space Race 

Norma West Linder 

Flying objects fill the air 

People spot them everywhere 

Streaking through the midnight sky 

Unidentified—too high. 

Some are long, like fat cigars 

Some resemble shooting stars 

Most are shaped like giant pies 

(possibly they’re full of spies). 

From this UFO profusion 

I can reach but one conclusion 

If these nosy, alien creatures 

See the worst of human features 

They will turn around and race 

Right back into outer space. 

82


Old John McCraay 

Sally Ann Roberts 

For years they'd say Old John McCraay 

Was ornery as a snake, 

He'd make the children run in fear -- 

Their legs began to quake. 

He'd shout and spit out people’s names 

And stomp, or scream and yell. 

The dogs would slither past his house 

When he went for his mail. 

Not one kind word he'd speak aloud 

To those who wished him well, 

In time the people turned away 

Where John McCraay would dwell. 

They'd not perceive a smile or grin 

Come from his dreary place, 

Just wrinkled brows and pinching eyes 

Was plastered on his face. 

One morning early John McCraay 

(Now this is what I heard) 

Had waved a friendly “Hi, hello!” 

Without a nasty word. 

No insults came, no stomping boots 

No slander, hate or grief. 

The neighbors passing by his house 

Would stare in disbelief. 

No one could see the puppy 

Tucked so softly in his arms, 

Which had crept into his window 

And wooed him with its charms. 

That's all the old man needed 

Was just something warm to hold; 

And now they say Old John McCraay 

Has a heart as good as gold. 

83


Conservatory 

Graeme King 

A tortoise takes so long to get from A across to B 

I watch him and I wonder why he tries... 

And what about a coral polyp living in the sea? 

Hes not a pretty reef until he dies. 

A springbok jumps to get away from predators out there, 

He leaps into the air - a graceful dance; 

But these days all the lions live in zoos without a care. 

Perhaps he jumps to get away from ants? 

A blue whale is the largest thing the earth has ever seen, 

Yet only eats the smallest, namely: krill; 

If we could live inside him - what a lovely submarine, 

And not a single fuel tank there to fill! 

The panda bear's endangered now, it's really rather sad, 

you'll find them now in cages at the zoo; 

Another modern casualty, and everyone feels bad 

(Well, everyone that is, except bamboo!) 

I hope they all are still here when a thousand years have passed, 

they really were here first, when time began; 

but if we don't start learning some important lessons fast, 

the next thing that will be extinct is MAN. 

84


Not Always to the Swift 

Lee Evans 

The final day of swimming class 

Was scheduled for a race, 

To see which child would come in first 

And save his parents’ face. 

Her little son the backstroke swam 

So far before the rest, 

That surely he would win the day 

And prove himself the best. 

But as he swam he glanced above 

His shoulder to the sky, 

Then slowed down, floating on his back, 

A dream before his eyes. 

And everybody else swam past, 

Too much intent to pause 

Before the finish line, to see 

Just what the matter was. 

But when the race was over with, 

His mother asked him, “Dear, 

Whatever were you thinking of 

That made you dawdle there?” 

“Oh, Mom,” he smiled angelically, 

“Up yonder in the sky 

Was such a lovely golden cloud, 

I couldn’t pass it by. 

“I lay there on my back and seemed 

Along with it to run, 

Just soaring into seas of blue, 

Toward the rising sun!” 

85


86


The Swing of the Jungle 

Graeme King 

The Jungle King was deep in misery, 

‘cause when he tried to swing from tree to tree 

he’d end up on his bum, for Heaven’s sake - 

as every vine he swung upon would break! 

The jungle creatures whimpered at the sound, 

that awful thud as he fell to the ground. 

They tried but couldn’t find a thing at all 

to help with vines that caused the hero’s fall. 

His wife was sadder now, not full of mirth: 

‘twas bad to see her man fall down to earth. 

He’d walk home bruised and battered every day 

(or run, if he met lions on the way.) 

The weeks went by, and things got worse, you see: 

They had to leave their house up in the tree. 

The ladder broke as he began to climb. 

She laughed - but that was this week’s seventh time! 

A pigmy potions doctor came, forsooth. 

He mixed a tincture: candied lion’s tooth, 

and powdered claw from forty feral dogs 

with monkey gland and sweat from seven frogs. 

He told the jungle beauty what to do: 

infuse the foul concoction in a stew, 

ensure her husband ate it every night. 

In three days things would start to work out right. 

That very day she cooked a fricassee 

with tail of crocodile and rhino knee. 

He ate the lot, then gave a strangled shriek, 

and sat upon the toilet for a week! 

A fortnight later, everything was sweet. 

No King of Jungle walking on his feet, 

he swung from vines, he’d stopped the falling spree! 

They moved back to their home up in the tree. 

At sunset, as they sat there, hand in hand 

and smiled across their lovely jungle land, 

he thumped his chest and gave his mighty yell, 

convinced that he’d escaped a voodoo spell. 

87


His wife was jungle savvy, knew the score, 

and laughed inside to hear her husband roar. 

He’d thought it was a spell and that was that - 

no need to tell him that he’d been too fat! 

88

Poems for Big Kids Bits and Pieces 

Bits and Pieces 

89


A Trek Through The Himalayas 

Srinjay Chakravarti 

The journey lasts for days and days. 

We trek up valley, hill and slope, 

We carry with ourselves the hope 

To traverse strange, untrodden ways. 

We enter now a world of clouds. 

Along the way we hear the call 

Of mountain wind and waterfall. 

The pallid mist is spreading shrouds. 

At last we reach the final peak. 

The summit beckons us to come 

The air is cold, our feet are numb. 

We climb to reach the grail we seek. 

The path is steep and narrow there. 

It snakes its way -- these stairs of stone 

Now mark the route we make our own. 

The sunshine gilds the lucid air. 

The peak is stark with gelid snow. 

We look where sky and earth have merged, 

From high above. Our souls are purged. 

Forgotten lies the world below. 

90


Soon Scarum Stiff 


Deep in the depths of the Woolly Wood 

In a cavern deep in a cliff 

Lives a ragged old hag with slobbery lips 

And her name is Soon Scarum Stiff 

Above the door of her horrible haunt 

Hangs a sign advertising her skills - 

Potions and lotions whipped up in a trice 

And certain to cure all your ills 

Her magical spells she keeps in a book 

All tattered and spotted with bile, 

And a rabid old rat keeps guard every night 

While sharpening his fangs with a file 

One wet wintry night, that crinkly old crone 

Shouted and screamed and kicked 

For the magical spells in the old battered book 

Just couldn’t be found- they were nicked! 

She gathered together the cats and the trolls, 

The frogs and fleas in her home 

And sent them out in the wide wicked world 

To look for the magical tome 

Far away and further away 

They searched the dingles and dells 

Till there in the hole of a short sighted mole 

They found the magical spells 

In triumph they marched, two by two 

The frogs, the fleas and the cat 

Till they found the road to the Woolly Wood 

That led to the haggard old bat 

But the horrible hag had faded away 

In the cavern deep in the cliff 

With the loss of the spells from the magical book 

She forgot how to Soon Scarum Stiff 

91


Hip Tips For Camping Trips 


YOU’RE GOING OUT CAMPING? 

Well, great, you’ll have fun. 

But listen! There’s safety! 

NO WAIT! I’M NOT DONE! 

See, first there’s the getting there. 

Yeah. In the car. 

Okay, you’re a comic! 

But don’t go too far! 

Don’t poke at the driver, 

and yell HOLY COW! 

You’ll land in the DITCH! 

I can just see it now! 

Hey, FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT. 

You’ve heard it before! 

We don’t want to lose you. 

AND LOCK UP THAT DOOR! 

Your arm out the window? 

Uh uh. I think NOT! 

Along comes a bus; 

look! No arm! Not so hot! 

Well now you’ve arrived. 

You can gaze at the trees. 

Don’t climb on thin branches. 

Just strong ones, PUH-LEASE! 

I know you get hungry. 

What’s new about that? 

But leave those strange berries 

right there where they’re at! 

A campfire is cool, 

but now, don’t forget: 

put out all the embers. 

You knew that, I bet! 

And pour on the sunscreen! 

A dumbbell you ain’t! 

We don’t want your skin 

peeling off like old paint! 

92


Remember your life jacket. 

Who wants to drown? 

It helps when your boat 

is afloat upside down! 

And swim with a partner. 

It’s no time to say, 

“I like having solitude.” 

Later! OKAY? 

I’m finished. Go camping! 

You got all of that? 

Have fun! Like FANTASTIC! 

And hey! Wear a hat! 

A Home By The Sea 

Patricia Louise Gamache 

Take hold of my hand and I’ll wish you away 

To a place in the sun, where porpoises stay, 

A home by the sea just a whisper away, 

Where seabirds and gulls majestically play. 

And when you’ve grown tired and begin to complain 

Take hold of my hand ‘til we’re home once again. 

We’ll dance through the spray with the breeze at our heels, 

We’ll stop for a time to cavort with the seals. 

When the call of the waves comes up from the deep, 

And the touch of the sea mist lulls us to sleep, 

We’ll make that same journey, you’ll go there with me, 

We’ll ride our seahorse to a home by the sea. 

93


The Composition Teacher 

Addresses His Class 

Joseph S. Salemi 

When naming things, you have to use a noun; 

A verb shows action or a state of being. 

An adjective describes--that is, marks down 

The qualities of objects that you're seeing. 

An adverb tells you how, or else how soon 

A deed is done--say, "painfully" or "fast." 

When placed with adjectives they help fine-tune 

Descriptive force, like "absolutely gassed." 

A pronoun takes the place of proper names 

Or else alludes to antecedent things. 

A preposition points, and always frames 

The noun or noun-linked phrase to which it clings. 

A participle emanates from verbs 

And functions as a hybrid in good diction. 

It can take past or present form, and serves 

To add a tense-based nuance to depiction. 

Conjunctions tie together words and clauses; 

They also can disjoin by act of scission. 

Like plus and minus signs, they marshal forces 

For union, separation, or division. 

An article is just an honorific 

You put before some nouns so we'll discern 

Whether your focus on them is specific 

Or just a passing glance of unconcern. 

An interjection is a mere effusion-- 

A word you blurt out from your guts or heart 

In rage, joy, spite, emotional confusion... 

It stands alone, syntactically apart. 

These are the parts of speech that make up discourse, 

At least for folks in literacy's fold. 

So if you're hoping to get by in this course 

Don't give me any backtalk -- learn them cold. 

94


Music to our Ears 

Peggy Fletcher 

Small trumpets play a yellow song to Spring 

while nodding snowdrops keep the tune in place. 

Bright lavender lilac dances out its theme 

as drums of April rain beat down, sun waits 

behind conductor cloud, its dark baton 

still poised to bring out thunderous applause 

as audience of earthworms, birds, a throng 

of honking geese, of cedar filled with dove 

that coo appreciation for shrill throats 

that signal end of Winter’s bleak refrain 

and usher in sweet symphonies of notes 

that blend these concert voices, call their names. 

For who in Springtime past has never heard 

the brilliant encore of Earth’s budding world. 

Dress Up Day in May 

Norma West Linder 

Sabbath morning, gloomy, grey; 

In a downpour, branches sway. 

Birds seek shelter, puddles fill, 

Raindrops pound our windowsill. 

Don’t be grouchy—wait with me. 

Shortly, we’ll go out to see 

Yellow tulips, washed and pressed, 

Shining in their Sunday best. 

95


The Cool One 

Myra Stilborn 

The wind is wicked and wild today; 

the prairie grass is shaking. 

The half-grown wheat is a rocking sea; 

the aspen leaves are quaking. 

The hawks are battered in the sky, 

their angry screamings muffled, 

while thistle binds her gorgeous hair 

and meets the day unruffled. 

The Scarecrow 

Amy Hagerty 

I once saw 

A man made of straw. 

He stood outside all day. 

He had nothing to say - 

He just kept the crows away. 

96


97


If Only 


If only I could spend my time in leisure, 

And never work to earn my daily bread. 

If only I had found a buried treasure, 

A sybaritic life I would have lead. 

Or what if I had been that treasure’s owner? 

A pirate bold, on distant, tropic seas -- 

A bright, green parrot perched upon my shoulder, 

A buxom wench ashore to wait for me! 

If only I had such a girl to love me! 

If only I were charming, rich, or fair! 

If only I could be a few years younger. 

If only I still had a head of hair. 

If only I had held my tongue when angry! 

If only I had spoken up in time! 

If only I had run a little faster! 

If only I’d been standing first in line! 

If only I’d been born to wealth and power, 

I know I could have been a mighty king, 

With bags of pearls and rubies in my coffers, 

And fingers all bedecked with golden rings. 

You’d find me living in a gorgeous palace 

With lofty towers climbing to the sky, 

I’d be the master of a thousand servants -- 

If only pigs had wings, and cows could fly! 

The Dusky-Leaf Monkey 

Rolli 

The dusky-leaf monkey had come from afar, 

Curled up in the lid of a cinnamon jar. 

He sailed the pale ocean on lily-moon beams, 

To sprinkle our noses with sweet-smelling dreams. 

And now, the foul nightmares will vex us no more— 

Just lavender sighs, and sweet peppermint snores. 

It’s wond’rous, it’s strange what the little one did, 

Our dusky-leaf friend, in a cinnamon lid! 

98


The Christmas Tree That Saved My Life 

Sally Ann Roberts 

Ma put our coats and hoods on tight, 

And sent Dad, Sam, Joe and me 

Into the woods so that we might 

Find a big tall Christmas Tree. 

"Try to get a nice one, Dan!" 

She hollered out the door to Pa, 

"Well try to do the best we can!" 

He hollered back, and waved to Ma. 

The winter's breath was sharp to feel, 

The snow was deep and cold on me. 

I didn't mind; we climbed the hill, 

For we were going to get a tree! 

Sam and Joe went far ahead, 

"We'll spot one first!" they both called back, 

Pa laughed and sighed, "We'll see." he said, 

"We'll see who really has the knack.” 

Pa winked at me, I smiled at him. 

"Come on," he said "It isn't far. 

Over there so tall and trim, 

Is where I think some good ones are." 

We walked a ways, my eyes grew wide. 

The prettiest trees I'd ever seen 

Grew down the trail and on each side -- 

Some small, some tall, some in between. 

We looked around through all the trees, 

And tried to choose which one was right 

To take and cut it down with ease, 

And set it up for Ma tonight. 

Pa and I walked separate trails, 

He called and said, "Don't go too far! 

If you find one, just give a yell, 

And tell me truly where you are." 

"Okay!" I called. I hope I win! 

"I want to find it first this year." 

I thought as I walked 'round the bend, 

I'm sure to find a good one here. 

The wind was cold, the sun was bright, 

Snow was falling down on me. 

I searched and searched with all my might, 

I prayed that I would find the tree. 

99


Just then I slipped and rolled downhill, 

I could not stop, I felt so stiff. 

My thoughts cried out, I cannot feel, 

Then almost fell down Campbell Cliff. 

I reached out for a firm hard grip, 

By thinking fast I'd grabbed a limb, 

And held on tight so’s not to slip, 

And called to Pa and cried for him. 

I saw the limb I held so tight. 

I was so scared, but then surprised, 

For I held a tree all snowy white, 

And tears began to burn my eyes. 

It's trunk was bent and sort of small, 

its twisted arms leaned in the snow. 

I didn't mind it wasn't tall, 

For somehow it just seemed to know. 

"I'll take you home with me tonight, 

I'll take you from this cold and snow." 

Then Pa cried out, "Are you alright?" 

"Are you okay?" called Sam and Joe. 

"I guess I am," I said through tears, 

"Boy what a scare it was for me! 

I hoped that you would find me here - 

I've found the perfect Christmas Tree." 

Pa picked me up where I'd fallen, 

And brushed me off a little bit. 

"Son, are you sure when you were callin' 

That in our house this tree would fit? 

With tender branches bent and low, 

A twisted trunk; a sorry sight, 

Deeply buried in the snow. 

And Son, you think this tree is right?" 

"Oh Pa!" I said through tearful eyes, 

"He's rather bent with hopeless strife, 

But this small tree, to your surprise, 

Was strong enough to save my life. 

He held me close till you came here, 

All trembling cold and pretty stiff, 

If it weren't for this tree so dear, 

I would have fell down Campbell Cliff!" 

We took it home and set it there, 

As that long day turned into night. 

It stands behinds Ma's favorite chair 

With decorations beaming bright. 

"Well, everyone! The supper's done!" 

Called Ma, who held the turkey knife. 

But I'll recall for years to come, 

The Christmas tree that saved my life. 

100


The Art Lesson 

June C. Horsman 

"Class," said the teacher, 

"Let's draw a tree, 

Look out the window 

Don't look at me." 

The samples were good 

Except for young Joe’s. 

He stayed after class, 

The rest got to go. 

The teacher asked softly, 

"Is this your sheet?" 

"There's clouds and a bug, 

There's mud and a leaf." 

"Oh", said the boy, 

"Have you never hung 

High on a branch 

And looked at the sun? 

“Have you turned upside down 

And swung by your knees, 

And hid in the leaves 

Of a big apple tree? 

“Discovered a nest, 

Or captured a bug, 

Or carried home blossoms 

That brought you a hug?" 

The teacher's smile grew. 

Now she could see 

The things she was missing 

When she drew her tree. 

101


Flutters of Thought 

Susan Eckenrode 

I wish that I could wrap my words 

around each fleeting thought 

that flits and flutters through my mind, 

a moth that won’t be caught. 

If only it would light awhile 

and rest its restless wings, 

I’d wrest the words to weave cocoons 

to hold such lovely things 

as poetry and lyrics to 

the tunes that float through time 

and touch the hearts of all who hear 

with magic in their rhyme. 

Star of the Week 

Julie Thorndyke 

That Martin has his picture on the wall 

beside the teacher’s name, all framed in glass. 

The sign says he’s the best one of us all, 

for this week he’s the star of Miss Wright’s class. 

When will it be my turn to be the star? 

I learnt my spelling - and I always win; 

when teacher has a quiz – I’m first by far. 

I’m quiet and you wouldn’t hear a pin 

drop when I work to add and multiply. 

The nature table has my insect jar 

of beetles, moths and one peculiar fly 

I captured late last night beneath dad’s car. 

I shined my shoes, I sit so mild and meek 

Oh, when will I be star kid of the week? 

102


Wander-lust 

Cynthia K. Deatherage 

Ancient mountains tall and grim 

Beckon me from hearth and kin. 

Leave the dale and leave the bowers. 

Follow stream and mountain showers. 

On and on I journey on, 

Following a mountain song, 

Winding down through valleys deeply, 

Climbing up through stone-hills steeply. 

Past the moors and past the streams. 

Follow on to pathless dreams. 

One foot falls before the other, 

Roaming hills bereft of brother. 

Ceaseless wander never ends, 

Drawn on farther by the winds. 

Searching, seeking legends long told, 

Hunting gold in phantom strongholds. 

Matchless treasure now grows dim. 

Mountain song is cold and grim. 

Weary footsteps yearn for hearthstone. 

Leave the road and shun the unknown. 

Dream-led wander-lust is o’er. 

Turn the step to home once more. 

Leave the streams and mountain showers. 

Rest with loved ones in the bower. 

103


Myth Defied 

Angela Burns 

Magnificent in ancient lore 

Elongated head to tail 

Slitted eyes and sharpened claws 

Fiery breath and iron scales 

Razor teeth in massive jaws 

Mountain caves became their lairs 

Hoarded treasure lined their bed 

Wizards, scoundrels, heroes dared 

To face the beast, and test its dread 

Their nameless bones were littered there 

Which land first saw these giant worms 

And felt the heat of fire drake’s flame 

Which bard first sang and others learned 

Those fearsome tales, no two the same 

And passed them on to us in turn 

Rampant on heraldic shields 

Gilt in brightly-painted texts 

Stitched in hues from red to teal 

Carved for kings eternal rest 

Myriad forms made legends real. 

Extinct they are, or so we’re told 

Defeated in their rocky heights 

They were so few and always old 

Perhaps they were too wise to fight 

Escaping while we sought their gold 

Alone of mythic beasts it thrives 

Invincible, they still regale 

Majestic under dreamer’s skies 

Where wit and wisdom never fail 

Not age nor fiction dims their eyes. 

How do they tempt with lizard grins 

Is there some magic at the core 

A whiff of brimstone on the wing 

Can mesmerize us evermore 

In sly revenge, the Dragon wins! 

104


In a Book of Fairy Tales 

jgdittier 

Once the summer sun was hot, 

now with winter, it is not. 

Reddened faces, icy vales, 

in a book of fairy tales … 

Frozen spears of glist’ning ice, 

now the fireplace doth suffice. 

Better hear of ships and whales 


Bees and butterflies abound, 

buzzing is the only sound. 

Ride the rails or coast with sails 


Talking sheep say more than “baa.” 

Read to me, both nurse and Ma. 

Quails in swails, tails on snails, 


Each outlandish thought I think 

fills a page before I blink. 

Magic swords and dragon’s scales, 


105


The Summer Garden 

Juleigh Howard-Hobson 

Snap dragons grow tall in the summer sunlight 

In reds, sunny yellows and even snow whites, 

While down near the warm earth the short pansies grow. 

With violets and blues and bright pinks the blooms show. 

Foxgloves and primroses, one short and one tall, 

Hold out purple flowers to bees, one and all. 

Daisies and poppies turn up their sweet faces 

To follow the sun, as they mark the day's traces. 

Dandelion 

Dick Buenger 

The dandelion's yellow 

In the face in the spring, 

A perky fresh fellow 

With green serrate wing. 

When summer grows warm 

He wears a lace crown, 

A feathery form, 

That is softer than down. 

The wind's bold caress, 

Will entice it away. 

With gentle finesse 

It will float in display 

And softly, like snow flakes 

Without any sound, 

Like frosting on cake 

It will cover the ground. 

106


Song of the Railwaymen 

Tony Newman 

Blowing off as, last door slamming, 

Waving guard gives “right-away.” 

Whistle shrieks and wheels slip madly, 

Then grip – and we’re on our way. 

Clattering ‘cross chaotic junction, 

Flanges singing as they bite, 

Sinews flex and blast comes brisker, 

Station’s slipping out of sight. 

Whirling motions lightly clinking, 

Chimney belches roiling steam, 

Panting beat and rail-joint rhythm, 

Hypnotizing, like a dream. 

Flickering trees and poles and hedgerows, 

Footplate swaying as we fly, 

Children sitting on the fences, 

Wave at us as we rush by. 

Underfoot the crunchy coal-dust, 

Driver checks that signal’s “off.” 

Fireman feeds the roaring firebox, 

Driver Wentworth, Fireman Gough. 

Smell the oil, the steam, the coal-smoke, 

Down the gradient let ‘er rip, 

Quarter-mile-posts flashing rearwards, 

Telegraph wires rise and dip. 

Bridges under, bridges over, 

Stations derelict and dead, 

Signal boxes, signal gantries, 

City outskirts just ahead. 

On with hat and on with raincoat, 

Wrestle luggage from the rack. 

Don’t forget your old umbrella, 

Dogs and bikes in van at back. 

As we coast into the station 

Windows open, out heads pop, 

Here we are: your destination. 

Keep the doors closed ‘til … we … … stop. 

107


The Magic Tricycle 

Graeme King 

My folks gave me a tricycle for Christmas ’54, 

Course, it was a second-hand one, we were fairly poor. 

Dad was gonna paint it, but it wasn’t meant to be, 

I had no love of colours, and the rust was fine by me. 

One pedal had no rubber and it had a crooked wheel, 

The seat was hard and weathered and had lost that leather feel, 

But I thought it was splendid and it made my world complete 

As every day I rode my magic trike along our street. 

Oh, yes, that trike was magic, more than any witches’ brew, 

No wizard’s wand could conjure up the things that it could do, 

Each time I sat upon the seat the world would fade from me, 

I’d ride into the places only four-year-olds can see. 

My horse would snort and shiver as the battle lines were drawn, 

Two armies facing death across a thousand-metre lawn, 

I’d shout out “Charge!” and lead the men into the mad melee, 

How they’d cheer as I rode in, and always saved the day. 

I turned the shields to full, the phasers firing at my back, 

The Zurkons had been hiding and they’d launched a sneak attack. 

I switched it into stellar drive and warped around behind them, 

And phased them to dimension X where no one else would find them. 

Von Richthoffen was squarely in the crosshairs of my gun: 

I’d laid a clever ambush hiding high up in the sun. 

As he spiraled Earthward, his black smoke clouding space, 

I headed for my airfield, to the chaps who called me “Ace.” 

I’d shout, “All hands on deck, ye swabs! Make every inch of sail!” 

A merchantman was running fast, across the starboard rail; 

I, Captain Blood, would run it down, I’d bring them to their knees. 

My Jolly Roger relayed fear across the seven seas. 

I lay down low, along my horse, to make the target small. 

The arrows flew around me and I heard the whooping call; 

A hundred mad Apache braves, oh, what was I to do? 

Ride like hell across the West, the mailman must get through! 

I put my whip away, I’d never hit this thoroughbred. 

We still can win this race if I ride hands and heels instead. 

Around the final turn I nudge him up another place, 

The crowd’s all cheering at the post – I know I’ve won the race! 

108


Oh, yes, that trike was magical, and now that I have grown, 

I still recall adventures that a boy had on his own; 

And sometimes when life closes in (well, nearly every day) 

I wish I had my tricycle, so I could ride away. 

109


The Weather Report 

James Kassam McAlister 

I looked into the sky one day: 

It seemed a storm was on the way! 

At morning there had been no sun; 

By afternoon it had begun. 

For wintertime, the heat was high. 

The dark clouds, spread across the sky 

Like misty blankets, blue and grey, 

All dark and heavy, hid the day. 

A storm was coming, cold and wet, 

And all my plans would be upset 

By hail and snow - or rain and lightning; 

But either way, it would be frightening. 

Several cloud types I could spy 

As I stared up into the sky - 

The stratocumulus near the ground, 

While altocumulus high were found. 

Cumulonimbus clouds piled high, 

Dark and towering in the sky. 

All these cloud types grouped together 

Showed there’d be some nasty weather! 

Though I had made big plans that day, 

A wicked storm was on its way; 

And then it broke - and so I sighed, 

Because I had to stay inside. 

110

Poems for Big Kids Growing Up 

Growing Up 

111


Odds-on Love 


Love’s what makes the world go round 

(At least that’s what they say) 

And Mom agrees, but Daddy says 

It’s Science all the way 

And Mummy says my nose will grow 

If e’er I tell a lie 

And Daddy says that she should know, 

But then he won’t say why! 

And Daddy thinks that it’s okay 

To eat before my dinner, 

But Mummy says it isn’t, so 

How come she isn’t thinner? 

They often seem to be at odds 

And yet they always smile; 

When I get married later on, 

I hope I have their style! 

Band Mates 


Michael wants to learn to play 

Guitar and have a band. 

Michael wants to be a star, 

The finest in the land. 

Stef will join him on the sax; 

The brothers won’t be fractious. 

I wonder how they’ll do it though: 

They never like to practice! 

112


For My Daughter 

David Gwilym Anthony 

It’s funny how I never saw you grow. 

I seem to miss what’s nearest as a rule, 

far too preoccupied - a busy fool 

blind to the way the seasons come and go. 

What shall I give since now you’re going too 

and will be gone a while? Although you’re brave 

and self-assured, I know I rarely gave 

a sign to show how proud I was of you. 

I give it now, with love; but love’s no gift: 

it’s yours by right. Because you’re going far 

I’ll give a gentle light to be your star, 

and all my hopes to hold when life’s adrift. 

I’ll give them all, though all I have would be 

no gift beside the gift you were to me. 

The Garbage Man’s Lament 


Whenever I go driving by 

Collecting garbage on the fly 

I hope you’re happy tucked in bed 

Not out collecting junk instead 

Forgive me if I do complain 

The days I go out in the rain 

Or when it’s too cold for a dog 

You may hear foul dialogue 

But I must keep your curbside clean 

No trace of garbage will be seen 

When you look down your street outside 

Think of the garbage man with pride 

113


My Mother Made a Snowman 

Elizabeth F. Hill 

My mother made a snowman on 

A wet November day 

She shocked me when I asked her to 

Come out with me and play 

The Beetle fully loaded, she 

Would pick me up from school 

And then I’d do my homework for 

It was my parents’ rule 

Perhaps it was the first snowfall 

First hint of winter weather 

That let her throw the rule away 

And had us play together 

We bundled up in winter wools 

Pulled on our knitted mittens 

Donned vivid scarves in red and blue 

And boots our feet could fit in 

Together we rolled up the snow 

So white and wet and sticky 

That bulbous head, it weighed a ton 

We had to lift it quickly 

We found two sticks for stumpy arms 

Some stones for eyes and teeth 

More rocks to girdle his great gut 

Protruding underneath 

At last we placed a corncob pipe, 

A hat of old black felt 

We cried into hot chocolate then-- 

We knew that he would melt 

BUT 

My mother made a snowman that 

Was better than a toy 

I’ll think of it forever for 

It filled me with such joy 

114


115


My Sister 

Frances Hern 

How can my sister Abigail 

take so long in the shower? 

I've waited but to no avail 

for over one whole hour. 

There isn't much of her to clean, 

she's only six years old, 

and when I get my turn to preen 

the water will be cold. 

Rainbow’s End 

Sally Clark 

At the end of the rainbow, 

I thought I would find 

A bucket of quarters 

And nickels and dimes. 

Too heavy to carry, 

I thought it might be, 

So I took along friends 

On the journey with me. 

To the end of the rainbow 

We followed the course, 

Our heads full of dreams 

That we’d find at the source. 

Though empty the bucket 

Of money or gold, 

We found greater treasure 

In stories we told 

Of traveling the distance 

Through hill and through vale; 

The prize we’d discovered? 

That friends never fail. 

116


Party Time 


Hooray, hooray, today I’m six, 

And soon I will be eight. 

Mummy says she’s going to help 

Me really celebrate, 

For birthday parties are such fun; 

I wish I could have more— 

Chocolate cake and games and things 

Could never be a bore. 

My mummy sometimes says they are, 

But I know she is teasing; 

I’m sure that entertaining kids 

Is one thing she finds pleasing. 

She always says she doesn’t mind, 

That she is happiest 

When waiting at the door to greet 

Each small unruly guest. 

And when they accidentally spill 

Their drinks upon the floor, 

Mummy says that it’s okay 

And then she gives them more. 

And when they all decide that they 

Don’t want to eat the food, 

Mummy mutters to herself, 

But all I hear is “rude.” 

And when they all forget to say 

Their thank-yous and their pleases, 

Mummy says to never mind, 

They’ll do it when hell freezes. 

Yes, Mummy says a party 

Every day would suit her fine; 

She also says sarcasm’s lost 

On children under nine. 

117


Little Man 


I’m growing old before my time 

I know I’m looking older 

I’m giving up this age of mine 

I’m even feeling bolder 

My future seems so very clear 

Although at times uncertain 

I am surprised to find it’s here 

Like fog behind a curtain 

Most days are spent in discontent 

I wonder what’s the matter 

I then discover what is meant 

I’m mad just like the Hatter 

I carry books for Betty-Ann 

And quickly must recover 

Her curl has brushed across my hand 

I’m startled to discover 

A feeling I’ve not had before 

Something I cannot see 

A malady I can’t ignore 

So what’s come over me? 

I try to tell her all my thoughts 

Instead I choke and stutter 

Then I decide to share them not 

But all the while I mutter 

I wonder what is wrong with me 

My tongue is like no other 

And just as soon as I can see 

I run home to my mother 

And even though I try to be 

More like the other men, 

I feel an ache inside of me: 

Says Mom, “You’re only ten!” 

118


Sweet Girl 


I need no fond reminders 

Of when my girl was born 

I need no stuff in binders 

Or pictures bent and torn 

I only need to watch you grow 

And guide you every day 

I only need to let you know 

I’m with you all the way 

And when some day you’re flying free 

And I’m left here alone 

I know the wonders that you’ll see 

At places still unknown 

But just for now I’ll cherish you 

And kiss a dampened curl 

I’ll let my love watch over you 

And know you’re my sweet girl. 

Only One 

Ian Thornley 

My love, the cat may have nine lives 

And it may squander eight, 

And leave its living to the last 

Before it’s all too late. 

But you, my love, have only one, 

Just one long summer’s day, 

To make mistakes and learn from them, 

To love and work and play. 

119


120


An Ethereal Visit 

J. Graham Ducker 

While I cleaned up my daughter’s room, 

A fairy came to me. 

She spoke of all the wondrous times 

And all the cups of tea. 

She sat there on the music box 

In dainty flimsy gown 

With tiny rings on tiny hands, 

And toes that dangled down. 

I asked her why she had appeared 

And why she’d come today. 

She said I should be tolerant 

Towards my daughter’s play. 

“Children are more sensitive 

Toward my mystic kin. 

They know that they are safe with us -- 

Pretending’s not a sin. 

“We’re only here a few short years, 

And then we’re gone for good. 

Her future, then, is up to you -- 

And it’s called parenthood.” 

When kindergarten time was o’er, 

I hugged her close to me. 

We spread her plastic dishes out 

For endless cups of tea. 

She introduced me to her dolls 

And told me all their names. 

We put each other’s makeup on. 

We played her little games. 

Connection that we made that day 

Is cherished memory. 

I am so thankful for the time 

A fairy came to me. 

121


The Freshman 

Peter G. Gilchrist 

I was pleased and excited and proud, truth be told, 

as I walked arm in arm with my wife. 

He stood tall and erect, and at eighteen years old 

was beginning the next stage of life. 

As the residence rang with refrains that remind 

and the memories prompted a smile 

we departed the dorm and we left him behind 

and meandered the campus awhile. 

There’s a soft satisfaction that settles the soul 

when you’re pleased with the man that he is 

and as parents you feel you’ve accomplished your goal, 

although most of the credit is his. 

But tonight I’m uneasy. This house is too still 

and the dog keeps on checking the hall. 

There’s a hole in my home where my son used to be 

and I can’t say I like it at all. 

Speaking Up 

Ian Thornley 

It’s almost always best, my love, 

To listen more than talk, 

And see if you can hear a song 

Above the general squawk. 

But rarely comes a time, my love, 

When silence seems as wrong 

As what you see and what you hear 

Among the general throng. 

And those will be the times, my love, 

When you must speak up loud 

And suffer jeers and growling dogs 

To reason with the crowd. 

122


The Little Pup 


Sometimes on the road 

Of a growing up pup 

He meets a big monster 

That trips him right up 

As he looks for a way 

To go over and ‘round 

He gets cut and gets bruised 

Or knocked to the ground 

The pup he fights back 

With his teeth and his nails 

He thrashes the monster 

Until he prevails 

More monsters await 

To attack him at night 

But he’s a strong pup 

Always ready to fight 

He climbs a huge hill 

And barks from the top… 

“I’ll give all you monsters 

A walloping BOP!” 

So as the pup grows 

And gets stronger each day 

He beats all the monsters 

Right out of his way 

123


124


Bunkbeds and Brothers 

Elizabeth F. Hill 

Although the beds were very old 

When first they did appear, 

It didn’t matter for us boys, 

Who’d needed them a year. 

Our parents were so thrifty then! 

(Or one might say quite tight!) 

To buy their children brand-new beds 

Just didn’t seem quite right. 

At first the beds were boring things— 

Just furniture – no more 

But when they made them into bunks, 

It thrilled us to the core. 

We boys took over right away 

Hung blankets for a fort 

Pretended we were on a ship 

And heading for a port. 

At first it was smooth sailing, but 

the seas then grew much rougher. 

It suddenly came clear to us: 

We both desired the Upper. 

My brother kicked and pinched me, aimed 

A left hook at my nose, 

And when I tried to kick him back, 

I nearly broke my toes. 

My mother said, “Don’t touch him, dear, 

For he’s your little brother. 

And he’s the only one you have; 

You’ll never have another.” 

Just then my brother shoved me, and 

I toppled to the floor. 

My mother got quite angry and 

she shooed us out the door. 

When bedtime rolled around at last, 

While watching television, 

Our mother said we needed straws 

To make the darn decision. 

125


My parents let my brother be 

The first of us to choose. 

He smirked at me and drew his lot. 

He knew he could not lose. 

And thus it seemed like justice when 

The one whose choice was first 

Was forced to take the lower bunk 

And have his bubble burst. 

So I was just ecstatic as 

I climbed into my berth, 

And not at all suspecting of 

My little brother’s mirth. 

As soon as I was settled in, 

The bed began to bump. 

My brother kicked my mattress hard 

And made my whole world jump. 

At first I was a sailor and 

In fear of being drowned; 

And then a great adventurer 

Imperilled on the ground. 

Then suddenly fatigue set in 

--My brother was a brat— 

So I leaned over from the top 

Took aim at him and SPAT! 

126


Double Trouble 

Rusty Fischer 

I wish that I could make a clone. 

A real good body double! 

Then he could take my place at home, 

And get in all the trouble! 

I'd play in paint and eat junk food 

And it would be the same 

As if I'd never done a thing, 

'Cause HE'D take all the blame! 

I'd be the best son ever found. 

(As far as Dad could see.) 

When really he could hardly find 

A "worser" kid than ME! 

For while he sat and ate dessert 

I'd be a big, fat pain! 

And while he slept in my warm bed 

I'd lie down in—the rain? 

Hey, wait a sec! Who IS this jerk? 

To try and be so sly! 

When all along there's no one like 

Just Me, Myself and I! 

127


The Perfect Child 

Peter Austin 

A meeting was arranged by Children’s Aid 

To choose adoptive parents for Doreen; 

But tidings from the doctor came between, 

So laden with foreboding, it was stayed. 

Three couples, when they heard, “disfigured feet: 

She’ll likely never run, and never dance,” 

Imparted their displeasure at a glance, 

And engineered a provident retreat; 

But one remained – a man with ragged hair 

And calloused hands that never quite came clean, 

A woman dressed in pink and mustard green, 

Who shrugged and grinned, and said they didn’t care…. 

In oak-floored homes, by crutch marks undefiled, 

The others still await the perfect child. 

Mother’s Smile 

Mike Burch 

There never was a fonder smile 

than mother’s smile, no softer touch 

than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile 

and know she loves you more than “much.” 

So more than “much,” much more than “all.” 

Though tender words, these do not speak 

of love at all, nor how we fall 

and mother’s there, nor how we reach 

from nightmares in the ticking night 

and she is there to hold us tight. 

There never was a stronger back 

than father’s back, that held our weight 

and lifted us when we were small 

and bore us till we reached the gate, 

then held our hands that first bright mile 

till we could run, and did, and flew. 

But, O, a mother’s tender smile 

will leap and follow after you! 

128


It’s Her Room Now 

Rusty Fischer 

My room is now quite empty. 

It’s absolutely bare. 

And soon another girl will put 

All her neat stuff in there. 

She’ll fill up all the bookshelves 

With poetry and knickknacks. 

She’ll hang up all her posters 

With a hundred tiny thumb-tacs. 

Her bed will go where mine once was. 

Her dreams will flood the ceiling. 

And I’ll be somewhere far away 

With wallpaper…that’s peeling. 

I wonder what she’ll look like. 

I wonder who she’ll be. 

I wonder if my good old room 

Will ever think of…me. 

129


The Runner 


Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track 

Grows fainter as you disappear into the setting sun. 

Your painful gasps I almost feel, as twilight skies fade black, 

But you will practice breathlessly ‘til many laps are done. 

I shield my burning eyes to watch your small, lithe silhouette 

Dash silently along the course as nightfall swallows day. 

The moon hangs in the sky, although the sun has not quite set, 

And child, I feel afraid, because you seem so far away. 

When you were only five years old I jogged right by your side 

Just slow enough to let you win the race and share your fun. 

Then you grew tall and strong; and soon it filled me with such pride 

To watch you speed ahead and fly as I had never run! 

You traded in your booties for an athlete’s running shoes. 

Someplace I’ve got new shoes I bought the day that you were born. 

While you rush forward, I look back, amazed at how you grew: 

A father’s coming sundown is his daughter’s brilliant morn. 

When was the last time that you took my hand to cross the street? 

Or ran to me in glee when you were playing on our lawn? 

The childhood firsts come scampering on noisy, little feet; 

But last times creep up quietly -- then quietly, they’re gone. 

Could this young, graceful runner, who will be a woman soon, 

Have been the helpless baby whom I cradled in one hand? 

Now, heedless of the gathering dark, beneath this autumn moon 

You pound a firm, determined pace while night enfolds the land. 

Someday when my skies darken, perhaps thoughtless men could say, 

“He was not famous, rich or wise. What great things has he done?” 

From mortal limitations we can never run away; 

But when I squint with failing eyes into that setting sun, 

And see you running in Life’s race, 

No matter who might claim first place, 

I’ll know that I have won. 

130

Poems for Big Kids Contributors 

Contributors 

Linda A. Anderson was born in 

Annapolis, Maryland, USA. She says, 

"I spent most of my 53 years as a 

resident of that state until I moved to 

West Virginia with my husband in 

1999. Since graduating high school, 

I've raised a family and had a variety 

of jobs, including secretary, aerobic 

dance instructor, and medical 

receptionist. I wrote my first poem in 

4th Grade, and it was printed in the 

school's newsletter and put to music 

by the school's music teacher. With 

the exception of one poem in the 

1980's, I didn't take up writing again 

until 2000. I've had poems published 

in the Tucumcari Literary Review and 

A.G. Pilot International. I favor 

humorous poems -- life needs 

laughter. My other hobbies include 

gardening, crafts, reading and 

photography." 

David Gwilym Anthony is a British 

businessman and a Fellow of the 

Royal Society of Arts. His second 

poetry collection, Talking to Lord 

Newborough, was published in the 

USA by Alsop Review Press (2004). 

Peter Austin lives with his wife and 

three daughters in Toronto. He writes 

formal verse, and his favourite form is 

the sonnet. His poetry has appeared 

in magazines/anthologies in Canada 

(including Queen’s Quarterly, The 

Dalhousie Review, The Prairie Journal, 

Contemporary Verse 2 and Ascent 

Aspirations), the USA, the UK, 

Germany, South Africa, Australia and 

New Zealand. As well as poetry, he 

131 

writes plays, and his musical 

adaptation of 'The Wind in the 

Willows' has been produced in 

Montreal, Antigonish, Nova Scotia, 

Vancouver and Worcester, Mass. USA. 

After spending several years in the 

wrong jobs (including bank clerk and 

computer programmer), he has spent 

the last 20 in the right one, as a 

Professor of English at Seneca College. 

In his spare time (what there is of it), 

he pulls apart and rebuilds his house. 

Ilene Black is the professional artist 

who illustrated this book. Now with 

her second book under her belt, Ms. 

Black plans to have her name within 

many more book spines as her future 

unfolds. She lives and works in a little 

country house, not far from the Bay of 

Fundy, in beautiful Nova Scotia, 

Canada. Her drawing partner, who 

spends most of her time stretched out 

at Ilene’s feet, is a large, fat rabbit 

named Eddie. More of her work is can 

be seen at www.ileneblack.com . 

Nicole Braganza lives in the United 

Arab Emirates. She says: "I enjoy 

writing – and children’s poetry has 

always been my first love, as it allows 

me to play with words and experiment 

with form and ideas. I have been 

writing since age 10, and have 

contributed to many poetry journals 

and magazines, apart from writing 

on-line. My poem Look to Your Dream 

was selected for publication in the 

2003 calendar of the National Black 

Child Development Institute of 

America."


Gord Braun lives in Yorkton, 

Saskatchewan, Canada, where he 

writes various kinds of verse, 

including light, non-rhyming - and the 

occasional limerick. He's been 

published in Folklore, Grain Magazine, 

Western People, Yorkton This Week, 

as well as Saskatchewan Celebrates 

(online) and Millennium Science 

Fiction & Fantasy, also online. He has 

also released Icebergs In Love, his 

first self-published collection of poems, 

most falling into the rhyming and 

light-verse categories. 

Cathy Bryant is 40 and lives in 

Manchester, UK. She has a degree in 

philosophy and has had a variety of 

jobs, from civil service clerk to artists' 

model. Since Cathy was a child she 

has written poems, stories and novels. 

Her work has appeared in various 

magazines such as Midnight Times 

and the Andromeda Spaceways 

Inflight Magazine. Although much of 

her work fits into the fairy tale and 

fantasy genres, there are many 

exceptions, and time spent working in 

childcare has led Cathy to write many 

children's poems and stories. As well 

as writing, Cathy's hobbies include 

ethical cardmaking, bookcrossing, 

veganism and cats. 

Dick Buenger (Richard E. Buenger, 

M.D.), was born in Chicago, USA in 

1922. He was Professor and Chairman 

of the Dept. of Diagnostic Radiology 

and Nuclear Medicine at Rush 

Presbyterian St. Luke’s Medical 

Center in Chicago; and former 

President of the Radiological Society 

of North America. Dr. Buenger says, “I 

have always loved music and words. 

Since I cannot sing and do not play an 

instrument, I sublimated my creative 

urges into poetry that has rhyme and 

meter. I have until recently been a 

132 

closet writer with no audience except 

my grandchildren for the poems that I 

love to compose. I am a member of 

The Society of The Fifth Line, which 

meets annually to exchange limericks 

– my other love of word usage. 

Writing poetry helps me sort my 

thoughts, find new words to express 

my feelings, and lets me sing songs to 

myself.” 

Mike Burch (Michael R. Burch) is the 

editor of The HyperTexts 

(www.thehypertexts.com), where he 

has published the work of three 

Pulitzer Prize nominees and recent 

winners of the T. S. Eliot, Richard 

Wilbur and Howard Nemerov awards. 

He has three Pushcart nominations, 

and his poetry has been translated 

into Farsi, Russian and Gjuha Shqipe 

(Albanian) by Farideh Hassanzadeh 

Mostafavi, Dr. Mahnaz Badihian, 

Yelena Dubrovina and Majlinda 

Bashllari. His work has appeared over 

700 times in publications which 

include Shabestaneh, Bashgah and 

Mahmag (Iran), Kritya (India), 

Gostinaya (Russia), Sonnetto Poesia 

and The Eclectic Muse (Canada), 

Numbat (Australia), Ancient Heart 

Magazine and The Word (England), 

The Book of Hope and Dreams 

(Scotland), Nutty Stories (South 

Africa), Voices Israel, and Black 

Medina, The Chariton Review, Light 

Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Lyric, Voices 

for Africa, Unlikely Stories, Writer’s 

Digest – The Year’s Best Writing, 

ByLine and Verse (USA). 

Angela Burns, a co-editor of this 

book, is a writer and publisher by 

trade, and a journalist by profession. 

She lives on Vancouver Island, British 

Columbia, Canada in an area so 

beautiful she finds it a constant 

inspiration. She is a community


activist whose often scathing, 

rhyming, commentary poetry, as well 

as researched articles, appear in the 

monthly The Island Word newspaper. 

She believes that rhyming poetry is 

both under-rated and under-utilized 

as a literary form. Her work appeared 

in two previous poetry anthologies by 

this publisher, and herself published 

an anthology of prose and poetry, 

Verve – Writings by the Valley Women 

of Words in 2006. When not staring at 

a computer screen, she enjoys 

reading (and writing) speculative 

fiction, creating fabric arts and trolling 

thrift shops for items related to these 

interests. She invites anyone to write 

her at valleyincline@yahoo.ca. We are 

grateful to Angela for her kind help 

proof-reading the manuscript of this 

book, and for her invaluable editorial 

assistance and technical advice. 

Srinjay Chakravarti is a 35-year-old 

journalist, economist, writer and 

translator based in Calcutta, India. He 

was educated at St. Xavier's College, 

Calcutta and at universities in 

Calcutta and New Delhi. He has a B.Sc. 

(Economics honors) and an M.A 

(English). His poetry and prose have 

appeared in numerous publications in 

nearly 30 countries. These include 

journals of the University of Chicago, 

University of Arkansas at Monticello, 

Southwest Minnesota State University, 

University of British Columbia, 

Vancouver, University of Otago, 

Dunedin, Bilkent University, Ankara 

and University of Salzburg, Salzburg. 

His first book of poems, Occam's 

Razor, has received an award in 

Australia. His journalistic columns 

include essays and articles on 

economics, politics, physics (including 

astrophysics) and literature (including 

literary criticism and book reviews). 

133 

Gregory Christiano, a cartographer 

by trade, is now working in 

Manhattan as an Account Executive 

for a major corporation. He has won 

the coveted Bronx County Historical 

Society's best narrative essay in 2002, 

and many other awards for prose and 

poetry. Recently Mr. Christiano was 

awarded excellence in winning best 

poem and essay in the Joyce Indik 

New Jersey Reader's Theater for VSA 

Arts of New Jersey. He is a published 

author of two books, A Night on 

Mystical Mountain, (2005) and 

Conversations from the Past, (2007). 

His eight chapter novella Invisible 

Universe has been translated into 

Chinese and appears in the January 

'07 installment of the Science Fiction 

World Translations edition OMW, an 

immensely popular sci-fi magazine in 

China. His work also appears in other 

journals, anthologies and magazines 

and on the Internet. Mr. Christiano is 

married and living in New Jersey with 

his wife of 28 years and three 

children. 

Sally Clark lives in Fredericksburg, 

Texas, USA with her husband of 37 

years. She is a high school graduate. 

Sally began writing after she and her 

husband retired from the restaurant 

business in 2001. Since then, she has 

published poetry for children and 

adults, as well as humor, greeting 

cards, creative non-fiction, and fiction. 

Her poem, Rainbow’s End, won third 

place for Poetry from the San Antonio 

Writers Guild in 2006. It was also 

published in the on-line children’s 

magazine, Stories For Children, in 

February of 2008. Her children’s 

poetry has appeared on-line at Kidz 

Wonder, in print in Highlights of Home 

Schooling, and in Blooming Tree 

Press’ children’s anthologies,


'Summer Shorts’ and ‘Sweet Dreams.' 

She is 53 years old. 

Sally Cook is an artist and poet living 

in rural New York with her husband 

and cats. She says: “The sonnet, 

narrative quatrains and rhyme assist 

me in expressing the world around me. 

I sometimes write about color in the 

landscape, mistakes I’ve made, 

people I’ve known, the habits of 

animals, the structure of a flower." 

Whether writing or painting, color is 

important to her. She loves music, 

complicated puzzles and clothes, 

which broadcast opinions to the world. 

She does not think like everyone else. 

Cook’s poems have been featured in 

the Raintown Review, and published 

in such journals as Contemporary 

Sonnet, Iambs & Trochees, Lucid 

Rhythms, The New Formalist, and 

Pivot. Her poem As The Underworld 

Turns was a recent third prize winner 

in the Best American Poetry 

challenge. Her poetry may be seen at 

www.formalpoetry.com/ebooks/cook. 

html 

Cynthia Deatherage, Ph.D., cut her 

teeth on epics, myths, and legends - 

whether Hercules battling the Hydra, 

or Beowulf trouncing Grendel, or 

Robin Hood thwarting the Sheriff of 

Nottingham, or Bilbo finding the One 

Ring, or Frodo destroying it - such 

tales have influenced her imagination, 

creativity, and thus, her poetry. Love 

of literature - especially the 

adventurous type - pursued Dr. 

Deatherage through her college 

career in her choice of studies (B.A 

and M.A in English and a Ph.D. in Old 

and Middle English Language and 

Literature). Dr. Deatherage hopes 

that through this volume other 

children will become enthralled with 

134 

literature, adventure, and poetry - 

including her own two youngsters. 

Ann Dixon, author of this book’s 

introductory chapter, has been writing 

essays, poems, and books for adults 

and children for more than 20 years. 

Her poetry for children has appeared 

in the magazines Cricket and Ladybug 

and the anthology Once Upon Ice. She 

has written eight picture books for 

children, including the upcoming 

When Posey Peeked at Christmas and 

award-winning titles Blueberry Shoe, 

The Sleeping Lady, and Big-Enough 

Anna. She holds a B.A. in Swedish 

Language and Literature from the 

University of Washington and a 

Master’s degree in Library Science 

from Southern Connecticut State 

University. For the past 25 years she 

has lived in Willow, Alaska, U.S.A., 

where she works as a school librarian. 

In 2000 she was honored with the 

CLIA award for Contribution to 

Literacy in Alaska. When not reading 

or writing, she likes to garden, walk, 

ski, and swim. A sample of her poetry 

for children can be viewed at 

www.anndixon.com . 

J. Graham Ducker: An honors 

graduate of Laurentian University, Mr. 

Ducker spent many years as a 

principal, kindergarten teacher and 

primary methods specialist, in various 

Ontario schools. After retiring, he 

published his memoirs in his book 

Don’t Wake The Teacher! which 

received a high rating. When traveling 

to Cuba in 2007 with the Canada Cuba 

Literary Alliance, he met with the 

Canadian Ambassador, did poetry 

readings at the University of Havana, 

the Havana Library and the 

International Book Fair. Upon 

returning home, he had a launch for


his poetry book Observations Of Heart 

And Mind. He has had many short 

stories and poems published. 

www.grahamducker.com 

Susan Eckenrode, a young-at-heart 

63, lives with her husband and three 

cats near Loveland, Ohio, USA. She 

began writing poetry in 2002, 

preferring rhymed and metered 

forms, usually delivered as narratives. 

Until recently, she has remained 

content with writing and perfecting a 

poem a day, with little desire to 

pursue publication. The Rhyme and 

Reason and Poems for Big Kids 

anthologies contain her first (other 

than on-line) published work. Some of 

her many interests include gardening, 

interior design and painting. She is an 

avid nature lover and enjoys long 

hikes on the trails near her home. She 

and her husband are newly-retired 

and finally free to travel as the spirit 

moves them - to visit their daughters 

and grandchildren as well as extended 

family and friends throughout the U.S. 

Long hours on the road are prime 

times for polishing poetic inspirations 

from many varied sources such as: 

nature (including human nature), 

family members and pets. 

Catherine Edmunds worked for a 

couple of decades as a classical 

musician before switching careers to 

re-invent herself as a novelist/poet 

and artist/illustrator. Her writing is 

embedded in the natural world and 

veers between fantasy and romance 

with a dash of humor, and her artwork 

embraces such diverse themes as 

delicate portraiture and exploding 

beetroots. Publications for 2008 

include her poetry collection, 

Wormwood, Earth and Honey 

(Circaidy Gregory Press), and 

135 

illustrations for Daniel Abelman’s 

novel, Allakazzam! (BeWrite Books). 

Catherine is married with three 

children and currently lives in 

northeast England, between the grey 

North Sea and the windswept High 

Pennines. 

Wayne Edwards is a native Texan. 

He graduated from Texas A&M 

University in 1957. He lives on a fish 

farm in Texas with his wife Ruth. 

Wayne retired from the US Air Force in 

1977. He spent his last five years in 

the military as the Air Force’s nuclear 

security inspector, which might 

explain why he built himself an 

underground house. Wayne didn’t 

start writing poetry until after he had 

obtained senior citizen status. He has 

published 12 books of rhyming poetry. 

He has drawn cartoons for five Texas 

newspapers and is in growing demand 

to read at schools and church 

gatherings. He furnishes 

entertainment for club functions, 

political fund raisers and private 

parties. He is a storyteller for the 

George Bush Presidential Library, 

where he reads his poetry and shows 

his cartoons to hundreds of school 

children. Wayne’s poems and 

illustrations can be seen on his web 

site, www.familypoet.com. 

Phillip A. Ellis is currently studying 

English Honors at the University of 

New England, Armidale, Australia. His 

chapbook, The Flayed Man, is due 

from Gothic Press this October. He 

also has a poetry book due from 

Hippocampus Press. He lives on the 

eastern coast of Australia, and he 

particularly likes prairie voles. 

Lee Evans is 57 years old and a 

graduate of the University of Maryland. 

Having retired from the Maryland


State Archives, he is now residing in 

Bath, Maine. He has recently 

published a collection of his poems, 

called Maryland Weather, which is 

available on Lulu.com and 

Amazon.com. The poems in this 

volume are for the most part formal, 

but there are many in free verse. He 

has written poetry for most of his 

adult life, but did not pursue the craft 

in earnest until he was in his early 

forties. His poetry has appeared in the 

Rhyme and Reason anthology, and in 

such journals as Contemporary 

Rhyme, The Golden Lantern, 

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, 

and Romantics Quarterly. 

Jen Finlayson was born in Toronto, 

Canada, and raised on Dr. Seuss, 

Sesame Street, jazz and show 

tunes. She writes, "I have a B.A with 

Honours in English from 

Carleton University in Ottawa, and in 

1998 I was awarded the George 

Wicken Achievement Award for 

writing from Centennial College in 

Toronto. I have given several live 

poetry readings in Toronto, briefly 

published my own chapbooks through 

the tiny Whimsivore press, and am 

now performing readings and singing 

folk songs in Second Life. I currently 

live in Toronto with my husband and 

my cat, and more stuffed animals 

than can be counted easily. " 

Peggy Fletcher is a poet/artist from 

Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. She is widely 

published in literary magazines, and 

has won many awards. She has a 

short story collection, a two act play, 

five poetry chapbooks, and six poetry 

books published, the most recent 

From the Reserves, (Stanza Break 

Press, 2008). A Visual Arts graduate 

from U.W.O, and member of the 

Writers’ Union of Canada, the 

136 

Canadian League of Poets, P.E.N, and 

the Ontario Poetry Society, she has 

taught creative writing at Lambton 

College, and is married to John Drage, 

fellow writer. She has five grown 

daughters and many grandchildren. 

Patricia Louise Gamache, at the 

age of 70, lives in Sidney B.C., where 

she enjoys the good life. The popular 

Port of Sidney is close to Victoria and 

the sea. Consequently, the residents 

of this retirement village have aptly 

called it Sidney-by-the-Sea. Before 

moving to Sidney and after visiting 

the unique little city, Patricia wrote 

the poem A Home by the Sea for her 

husband. They both dreamed of 

retiring to Sidney, but after a long 

illness and his untimely death, she 

moved to Sidney alone. Patricia 

enjoys family and friends, gardening, 

shopping, reading and writing. Two 

22-month old kittens are still training 

her. The wily duo, consider her a slow 

learner. 

Ryan Gibbs is an English professor at 

Lambton College in Sarnia, Ontario, 

Canada, whose publication credits 

include the poems Just to be You in 

Delicious (Cranberry Tree Press) and 

Taming the Dragon in Unlocking the 

Muse (Beret Days Press). 

Peter G. Gilchrist lives in Edmonton, 

Alberta, Canada and makes a living as 

a lawyer and an executive recruiter. 

He is a parent, a paddler and a poet. 

His poetry has been published in 

Reconnaitre Magazine, Saucy Vox 

Review, Literati, Worm and Cowboy 

Poetry.com. Along with Peter 

Karwacki and Ken Corbett, Peter 

published Paddle Tracks, a collection 

of paddling poetry, in May of 2004.


Amy Hagerty was born in Chapel Hill, 

North Carolina, USA, and grew up in 

Providence, Rhode Island. She is a 

graduate of Mount Holyoke College. 

Before marriage, she worked as an 

actuarial analyst for the Boston office 

of Watson Wyatt Worldwide. She now 

lives in Tiverton, Rhode Island with 

her husband James, their daughter 

Claire and many dogs and cats. All of 

them have been an inspiration to her 

writing. Her stories and poems for 

children have been accepted by such 

publications as: Stories for Children, 

Fandangle, Word Salad, Whimsy, 

Cecil Child, New Leaders for New 

Schools, Faraway Press (UK), and 

Whittle Tykes. She is a member of the 

Society of Children’s Book Writers & 

Illustrators. 

Frances Hern says, "I began writing 

poetry sometime around the age of 

ten with my versions of Tennyson, 

Keats and Wordsworth. I didn't 

understand all the words in my 

father's books of English Romantic 

poetry but I loved their sounds, their 

rhythm and rhyme. My Sister began 

with the rhythm of Lewis Carroll's 

'How doth the little crocodile' (itself a 

parody of 'How doth the little busy 

bee' by Isaac Watts). My version 

began with the line 'How does the 

little garden snail.' I had this rhythm 

running through my mind when a 

conversation cropped up about 

someone who showers and showers 

until the hot water tank is empty. 

Within minutes, the poem was born. 

Besides poetry, I write children's 

fiction, and non-fiction. My book, 

Arctic Explorers: In Search of the 

Northwest Passage, was one of 

Altitude Publishing’s Amazing Stories 

series. 

137 

Mary Rand Hess lives outside 

Washington, D.C., USA with her 

husband, two sons and a peculiar little 

dog. Although she originally thought 

she’d be a rock star, she ended up 

graduating from George Mason 

University in Virginia with a degree in 

English Writing. Her work has been 

published in community, national, and 

international magazines and 

newspapers ever since. Her first 

picture book, Cyrus Becomes A Clown, 

is available on www.mightybook.com 

and www.sillybooks.net. Currently, 

Mary is at work on several books for 

children. In addition to the written 

word, Mary enjoys composing music, 

dancing and traveling with her family 

to places old and new. 

Elizabeth F. Hill informs us, "I am a 

stay-at-home mother, currently 

residing in Edmonton with my 

husband and my son. The holder of a 

Ph.D in intercultural education, I 

have been a sessional instructor at 

the University of Alberta and a 

research assistant at Charles Sturt 

University in Australia and for Aichi 

Gakusen University in Japan. At one 

time, I also taught secondary school 

in Nigeria under the auspices of 

CUSO. I enjoy my family, music, 

literature, travel, sports and creative 

writing." 

Kimberly Hodgkinson-Spencer 

writes: I am an elementary school 

teacher, married with two children. 

Currently I teach 2nd Grade. I write 

with my students daily, and enjoy 

helping children bring their writing to 

life with fantastic words and 

their daily or unusual experiences. I 

have a B.A from the University of 

Florida and a Master's in reading from 

the University of New Hampshire. I 

continue to take classes on-line and at


Colorado State University in writing 

and reading. I am originally from New 

York, and also grew up in Florida. I 

lived in New Hampshire for 10 years, 

and currently reside in Northern 

Colorado. I have been writing poetry 

since I was a little girl. I enjoy writing 

personal poems for my family and 

ones that are humorous or involve 

nature. I haven't been previously 

published. I enjoy writing, reading, 

biking and baking. I also dabble in 

gardening and daydreaming. I wrote 

Ode to Mystery Meals for one of my 

daughters who doesn't always enjoy 

the meals served at our dinner table. 

Janis Butler Holm has served as 

Associate Editor for Wide Angle, the 

film journal. Her essays, stories, 

poems, and performance pieces have 

appeared in small-press, national, 

and international magazines. Sven's 

Pen is her first poem for young 

people. 

June C. Horsman says, "I was born 

in a small community called Ripples 

in New Brunswick, Canada; and I 

currently live in Moncton, NB. Writing 

is my favorite hobby, as it requires 

only pen, paper and imagination. I 

enjoy writing songs, poems and short 

stories. I have had some work 

published. I am a member of the New 

Brunswick Writers Federation. 

Besides daydreaming, I enjoy my 

grandchildren's visits." 

Juleigh Howard - Hobson has 

recently been nominated for a 

Pushcart Prize and, as well, has been 

nominated for inclusion in the Best of 

The Net 2007 Anthology (Sundress 

Press). Her work has appeared 

in many places, including: The 

Barefoot Muse, Contemporary Rhyme, 

Aesthetica Magazine, The Runestone 

138 

Journal, Every Day Fiction, Her Circle, 

The Australian Reader, Idunna, Going 

Down Swinging, Whistling Shade, 

Mobius, and The Hypertexts. She lives 

in the Pacific Northwest with her 

artist-blacksmith husband, three 

homeschooled children and two cats 

-- neither of which is particularly 

count-ulous...! 

Bryon D. Howell is a poet currently 

residing in the state of Connecticut, 

USA. He has been writing poetry for 

over 20 years. Although Mr. Howell 

never did major in literature or in 

poetry when he attended college, 

poems of his have been published in 

over 300 online and in-print 

magazines all over the world. Most of 

the poetry Bryon writes is in the 

sonnet form. He also writes and 

submits under an array of pen-names. 

In late 2008, Bryon will be re-locating 

to the Philippines. 

jgdittier (pen name of Ron Jones) 

now 75, is retired in Connecticut, USA 

after serving small industry in 

meeting their environmental-related 

requirements. His pencil name, 

jgdittier, results from his writing light 

verse (ditties) and his response to 

having read J. G. Whittier’s 'Barbara 

Frietchie.' He is smilingly committed 

to a quest to promote the poetry and 

poets of yore, as he is a strong 

advocate of R&M verse. In that effort 

he has written hundreds of 

paraphrased poems of yore, 

challenging his internet readers to “ID 

and link to the mystery poem.” Such 

verse duplicates the cadence, rhyme 

scheme and message - and, he says, 

hopefully promotes both an interest in 

our poetic heritage and respect for the 

bards of yore. To find much his verse 

on the internet, google “jgdittier”.


Feel free to email him at 

rbjones02@optonline.net. 

Sonja Kershaw says, "I was born in 

Germany two years before World War 

II, and emigrated to the United States 

at age 19. I met my husband Fred in 

Miami, Florida. For over 30 years I 

trained and bred horses, and taught 

jumping and dressage. After our 

children left for college I solved the 

empty nest syndrome by attending 

Southern Illinois University, where I 

earned degreed in Journalism and 

English. When I lost most of my sight 

at age 50, writing became therapy 

and purpose of life. Besides poetry, I 

write essays, memoirs and stories 

about the many animals in my life. 

Since my husband’s death in 2004, I 

have lived alone in rural Illinois with 

my horses, cats, dogs and a 

three-legged goat." 

Graeme King was born in Melbourne, 

Australia in 1950. He started writing 

rhyming poetry when he was about 10 

years old, and he remembers having 

an exercise book full of poems when 

he was 11. He attended Ivanhoe 

Grammar School on full scholarship, 

awarded mainly because of this 

writing book at primary school. Over 

the years he wrote only sporadically, 

but always seemed to write 

something at least once a year. 

Almost everything posted on his 

website, www.kingpoetry.com, has 

been written since January 2005. He 

enjoys music, gardening and fishing in 

the nearby lakes. While he 

appreciates all other writers, it is 

special poems that particularly inspire 

him, and he reads many 

contemporary magazines to try to 

gain inspiration from the efforts of 

others. He says that he enjoys the 

freedom of free verse, but there is 

139 

nothing like putting together a clever 

rhyme in correct meter that is ha-ha 

funny as well. 

Geoffrey Landis is a scientist and a 

well-known writer. He informs us, "As 

a scientist, I work on the Mars 

Exploration Rovers at NASA; as a 

writer, I am the author of many 

science fiction stories and one novel, 

Mars Crossing, as well as numerous 

poems. I've won the Hugo and Nebula 

awards for science fiction writing, and 

the Rhysling award for science fiction 

poetry. I've been writing occasional 

poetry since I was in high school, but 

didn't actually publish my first poem 

until many years later. My poetry 

spans the range from doggerel, to 

song lyrics, to free verse. I live in 

Berea, Ohio, USA, along with my wife 

(also a writer), our two cats, Lurker 

and Sam, and a yard full of trees. 

More can be found on my web page, 

www.sff.net/people/geoffrey.landis." 

Simon Leigh is a former university 

professor, writing full-time in Toronto. 

"From Melbourne, Australia, I was 

educated way beyond my intelligence 

at Sydney University, Oxford and the 

University of New Brunswick. Thirteen 

years at universities ended in a 

construction job digging drains, then 

13 years as a racing driver ended in a 

concrete wall at Mosport. I now ski 

race. My poems and stories have 

appeared in The Fiddlehead, the 

Antigonish Review, etc. and four 

anthologies. My three poetry books 

are The Bleeding Clock (New 

Brunswick: Fiddlehead Poetry Books), 

Dying Flowers (Fiddlehead Poetry 

Books) and Short Strokes (Toronto: 

Shift F7 Press, 2007.) Available 

through Amazon, or email me at 

simonhowardleigh@yahoo.ca . My 

novel Wild Women: a memoir with six 

lies was published by UKA Press, 2005


and in a new edition in 2007. My two 

new novels, The Killing, and Death in 

Venice II are with an agent; and a 

play, Stalker, is in production." 

Norma West Linder was born in 

Toronto, Canada, and spent her 

formative years on Manitoulin Island, 

Ontario. She is a member of The 

Writers Union of Canada, PEN, The 

Ontario Poetry Society, Writers in 

Transition, and is past president of the 

Sarnia Branch of The Canadian 

Authors' Association. Linder is the 

author of five novels, nine collections 

of poetry, a memoir of Manitoulin 

Island, a children's book, and 

co-author of a biography of Pauline 

McGibbon. For 25 years she taught 

English and Creative Writing at 

Lambton College in Sarnia. She has 

two daughters and a son. 

Irene Livingston won Canada’s 

prestigious Leacock Prize for Poetry in 

2001. She began writing for adults in 

1998, after starting children’s writing 

a couple years earlier. She has been 

published in Canada, USA, England, 

Australia and New Zealand. Recently 

she won 2 nd prize in Arc Magazine’s 

Poem of the Year contest, and she 

placed 3 rd for Prairie Fire’s Bliss 

Carmen Award. Irene has written a 

novel, a series of connected short 

stories with Damon Runyon-like 

characters, called Down Around the 

Corners, and a poetry collection. She 

has created two picture books, 

Finkelhopper Frog, and its sequel, 

Finkelhopper Frog Cheers (Tricycle 

Press, Berkeley CA, USA). 

James Kassam McAlister, 15 years 

old, is the youngest author whose 

poetry appears in this collection. He 

started writing poems at the 

instigation of his Grade 6 teacher. 

140 

Now in high school, James enjoys 

mathematics and sciences the most. 

The Weather Report was written as a 

novel approach to an assignment for 

his Grade 10 science class. 

Neil Harding McAlister, M.D., Ph.D. 

(father of James and Zara) lives in 

Port Perry, Ontario, Canada. He 

specializes in Internal Medicine. He is 

co-author of five science books; 

co-editor and publisher of this 

anthology and its predecessors, New 

Classic Poems and Rhyme and Reason. 

Dr. McAlister’s scientific articles, 

non-fiction and humor appear in 

professional and commercial journals. 

Besides writing, collecting and 

publishing poetry, his other hobbies 

include backyard astronomy and 

composing music. He maintains two 

Internet sites: Traveler’s Tales, for 

poetry, and Brigadoonery, for fans of 

Scottish-Canadian humor. 

Zara McAlister, a co-editor of this 

book, is currently an English major at 

Queen’s University in Kingston, 

Ontario, Canada. She enjoys reading, 

creative writing, travel and fashion. 

Tony Newman was born in Rugby, 

Warwickshire in 1942. He attended 

Tower Lodge preparatory school and 

the Harris School in Rugby, and Rugby 

College of Technology and Arts. Most 

of his working years were spent as a 

draftsman-designer in the aerospace 

industries of Britain and Canada. He 

has been a long-standing member of 

the Royal Observer Corps. He settled 

in Ontario, Canada in 1981. His 

interests include genealogy, writing, 

natural history, ancient history, 

pre-history, aircraft of WWII, British 

steam railways, history embedded in 

legend, poetry, anomalous 

phenomena, music, book-collecting,


and slipshod, vindictive and 

obstructionist judicial processes. He 

has published three books: Not Since 

I Grew Legs, a poetry anthology 

(2004); It's A Known Fact a 

florilegium (poetry & prose)(2006); 

and Great Central, The Twilight Years 

– A Photographic Essay 1960-1964 

(2007). The author's poems are found 

in several British poetry anthologies. 

B. L. Richardson, author of the story 

poem, The Great Bug Race (HMS 

Press, 2006), is glad to have set down 

roots in London, Ontario, Canada, 

where she has launched her three 

children into adulthood. It was while 

moving around the country that 

Bonnie began storytelling to her own 

family. Over the last 15 years she has 

taken several creative writing courses 

and tried her hand at writing for 

newspapers and local travel 

magazines. Bonnie now writes solely 

for children in prose and poetry. To 

view her website, google: bonnie 

richardson and click on CANSCAIP 

member 

Sally Ann Roberts has been writing 

poetry for over 30 years. At the age of 

nine, she started keeping a journal 

where she wrote down all her 

thoughts and dreams. It was Dr. 

Suess's 'The Cat in the Hat' which 

inspired her into rhyming words. His 

nonsensical way of writing was 

intriguing and delightful. Then in 

junior high school another inspiration 

came when she read 'The Bells' by 

Edgar Allan Poe. The differences in his 

poetry added to her vocabulary and 

provided ideas she needed to fulfill 

her desire to become a poet. Sally 

says there are so many influences for 

her, it is difficult to pinpoint any one 

thing. Every day is an inspiration of 

one kind or another. When she sits 

141 

down to write yet another poem, she 

finds herself fulfilling another dream. 

Rolli, the recipient of the 2007 John 

Kenneth Galbraith Literary Award, is 

the author of more than 800 poems 

and stories for children and 

adults. Those interested in 

sponsoring/soliciting one or more of 

these may contact him at 

rolliwrites@hotmail.com 

Madelyn Rosenberg is a freelance 

writer living in Arlington, Virginia, USA. 

Her poetry has appeared in 2River 

View and Literary Mama. 

Evelyn Roxburgh writes, "I did not 

have much formal education because 

of health problems when I was 

young. I worked for an airline for 

many years, and retired at 58 to 

attend a Masters degree course in 

writing for children. Having attained 

my degree, I contributed articles to 

magazines and won first prize for an 

adult poem, and 2nd prize for a 

travelogue in an international 

competition. I have had poetry 

published in anthologies, and having 

taken up painting, won a prize in an 

art competition in Auvillar, 

France. After retirement, I bought a 

derelict cottage in France and 

restored it, met and married my 

husband Peter in Barbados, and now 

live in a lovely house that we had built 

in the South of France. I hope to 

continue my writing career for both 

children and adults. Presently I am 

pursuing a diploma in art with The 

London Art College. " 

Joseph S. Salemi, Ph.D. teaches in 

the Department of Classical 

Languages at Hunter College, City 

University of New York. He is a Lane 

Cooper Fellow, an NEH scholar, and a 

winner of the Classical and Modern


Literature Award, as well as a 

four-time finalist for the Howard 

Nemerov Prize. He has published four 

books of poetry: Formal Complaints 

and Nonsense Couplets (Somers 

Rocks Press); Masquerade (Pivot 

Press); and The Lilacs On Good Friday 

(New Formalist Press). He is a regular 

essayist and reviewer for the 

Expansive Poetry On-Line website, a 

former editor of Iambs & Trochees 

(editor), and the editor of a new 

formal poetry magazine that will 

appear in the spring of 2008. His work 

has appeared in over 100 journals and 

10 anthologies. 

She is the pen name of Shelia Rackley, 

who writes, "I was born in England in 

the 1930s. I grew up during the 

Second World War, with air raids and 

rationing. In my 20s I emigrated to 

Australia on a government scheme, 

and lived there for two years. After 

returning to England I couldn’t settle, 

so I came to Canada in 1963. After 

living in Toronto and Montreal for 

about a year, I went to Vancouver, 

where I worked at various jobs. After 

retiring I settled in Victoria on 

Vancouver Island. I started writing 

nonsense poems a few years ago. I 

enjoy long walks with a golden cocker 

spaniel known as George III because 

of his mad moments. I read a lot, and 

love crosswords. Retirement is the 

best holiday I have ever had." 

Myra Smith Stilborn, our most 

senior poet, is a 91-year old writer 

currently living in Saskatoon, 

Saskatchewan, and was raised on a 

farm near Indian Head. She writes, "I 

have a B.A. from the University of 

Saskatchewan and was a teacher for 

10 years in prairie one-room 

schoolhouses and in town high 

schools. My occupations have 

142 

included homemaker and teacher, 

and I have been writing poetry since 

the age of 10 (inspired by The 

Torchbearers' Magazine, that was 

included in the Regina Leader, which 

accepted children's work). I was a 

First Place winner in the Salmon Arm 

Sonnet Contest of British Columbia 

and have had haiku published in 

Japan as well as other writing in the 

Canadian Children's Annual, Western 

People Magazine, and Folklore. My 

preference is to write rhymed poetry, 

and I often utilize nature themes. My 

hobbies have included fencing, tatting 

and identifying wildflowers. Some of 

my self-published writing is available 

on www.lulu.com. 

Julie Thorndyke, an Australian 

writer, has a day job in a library but 

would rather be walking on the beach 

collecting poems! Her work has been 

published in journals including 

Phoenix, Eucalypt, Studio, Yellow 

Moon, Bottle Rockets, Ribbons, 

Paperwasp, and Stylus. Her first 

children’s story was published by 

Ginninderra Press in 2006. 

Ian Thornley says that he escaped 

from the shadowlands of England in 

his early 20's, not so very long ago. 

He lives in Boston with his wife, three 

children and two cats. When he is not 

writing, or striving with variable 

success as a husband and father, he is 

a pediatrician. His poetry has 

appeared most recently in The Eclectic 

Muse. 

Joanne Underwood is a Canadian 

poet living in Calgary. She’s married 

and the mother of two grown sons 

whose antics in the growing-up years 

were fodder for some of her poems. In 

2007, she won first prize for poetry at 

the Powell River Festival of Writers,


had a haiku published in Geist 

magazine and a poem included in the 

Alberta poets’ anthology, Writing the 

Land. She enjoys playing with rhythm 

and rhyme and the challenge of 

writing to a set topic. 

Peter Webb writes software to 

empower scientists and poetry and 

stories to amuse his two children. He 

has published articles in trade 

journals, but none of his imaginative 

work has appeared in print before. His 

poetry mostly scans and almost 

always rhymes, though he 

occasionally falls prey to the seductive 

brevity of a haiku. He admires the 

formalism of Stevenson, the 

constructive madness of Blake and 

Coleridge and the simplicity of Robert 

Frost. His poems idealize the natural 

world, and long for a life without 

compromise or dilution. Peter has 

degrees in computer science, English 

and business. He lives with his wife 

and children in Newton, Mass., USA. 

143

Poems for Big Kids Index of First Lines 

Index of First Lines 

A dinosaur went walking, for to see what he could munch 27 

A drunken pirate staggered through the doorway of a bar 67 

A meeting was arranged by Children’s Aid 128 

A tortoise takes so long to get from A across to B 84 

Although the beds were very old 125 

Ancient mountains tall and grim 103 

At the end of the rainbow 116 

At the sing sang song 26 

Blowing off as, last door slamming 107 

Cecil was a three-toed sloth, he ate a lot of leaves 49 

"Class," said the teacher 101 

“Daisy, my dear...” said the count-ulous cat 27 

Deep in the depths of the Woolly Wood 91 

Dog food 31 

Flying objects fill the air 82 

For years they'd say Old John McCraay 83 

Gardelia woke up feeling grundled 22 

He came to us by happenstance 40 

Hooray, hooray, today I’m six 117 

How can my sister Abigail 116 

How doth the little subway mouse 51 

I am a little bookworm 47 

I bought a horse; his name was Shay 60 

I had a berry loving dog 55 

I looked into the sky one day 110 

I lost my head, the lettuce said 24 

I met an Emperor penguin once 62 

I need no fond reminders 119 

I once saw 96 

I saw a toad beside the road 45 

I started life with a small nose 20 

I think that I shall never pat 35 

I used to feed two squirrels in the yard 49 

I was pleased and excited and proud, truth be told 122 

I wish that I could make a clone 127 

I wish that I could wrap my words 102 

If only I could spend my time in leisure 98 

If scaring little children is so easy 80 

“I’ll feed and clean it, pinky swear!” 68 

144


I'm black and white, it isn't right 44 

I’m growing old before my time 118 

In a house too near the beach 33 

It’s almost always best, my love 122 

It’s funny how I never saw you grow 113 

Listen my children, I’ll mention a bird 79 

Look to your dream; reach out and touch the skies 66 

Love’s what makes the world go round 112 

Lucille has a tomcat named Sven 41 

Ma put our coats and hoods on tight 99 

Man’s best companion 53 

Magnificent in ancient lore 104 

Michael wants to learn to play 112 

My cat Jellumbungo 40 

My folks gave me a tricycle for Christmas ’54 108 

My kitty cat is black and white 41 

My love, the cat may have nine lives 119 

My mother fed us puke for dinner 30 

My mother made a snowman on 114 

My room is now quite empty 129 

O for the Days when the Night-wind blows 22 

Oh little bee 56 

Oh, please 28 

On my tenth birthday, after tea 73 

Once the summer sun was hot 105 

One rainy, sunlit midnight day 32 

Peter loved his pizza, and he ate one every day 77 

Sabbath morning, gloomy, grey 95 

Said the child to the cat 60 

Small trumpets play a yellow song to Spring 95 

Snap dragons grow tall in the summer sunlight 106 

Soft and lazy 57 

Sometimes on the road 123 

Take hold of my hand and I’ll wish you away 93 

Terry Termite staggered home, but not the worse for drink 59 

That Martin has his picture on the wall 102 

The binder dropped the stalks of wheat, untied 66 

The dairy herd was gathered 71 

The dandelion's yellow 106 

The dusky-leaf monkey had come from afar 98 

The fat ground hog within his hole 39 

The final day of swimming class 85 

The journey lasts for days and days 90 

The Jungle King was deep in misery 87 

The squash in my garden went bump in the night 26 

The U.S.S. Delusion was the largest in the fleet 65 

The village people gathered in the square 69 

145


The wind is wicked and wild today 96 

There came a time to put my toys away 72 

There never was a fonder smile 128 

There once was a frustrated bird 39 

there was a certain Turkish king 24 

They said to write a little bit 52 

Think what it would be like 48 

Toby Tiger twitched his tail, said “I don’t wish to boast 54 

Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee 29 

Upon a humble farm, a mouse 74 

Venice is sinking 28 

We’re having boats for dinner 23 

West coast squirrels look well dressed 62 

What are you doing, pet? 43 

When naming things, you have to use a noun 94 

When this hard day's work is finished 78 

Whenever I go driving by 113 

While I cleaned up my daughter’s room 121 

While paddling in the rippling brook 34 

Who reads the bedtime stories 38 

Who rhymed on Monday? 36 

Wise woodsmen who wander the wilds way up north 47 

Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track 130 

You’re going out camping? 92 

146

Poems for Big Kids

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