Mirror, Mirror, and Other Hard Questions: Poems for Children

Hello all! When my kids were young I wrote a bunch of children's poems and published a handful.  When my first grandchild was born in Nov. 2023, I resumed. Below is a short sampling  -- some new, some old. Thanks for taking a look. Oh, and publishers, if you're interested, I have maybe 200 more like this.

Easily pleased 

My baby sister grabbed my red scarf,
and waved it all around.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! she cried,
and tossed it to the ground.
My baby sister grabbed a spoon
and pounded on her tray.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! she shrieked –
she would have done it all day.
My baby sister grabbed a wrapper
and tore it all to bits.
Hahahahaha! she cried –
it really gave her fits.
A scarf, a spoon, a wrapper –
that’s where she finds her joys.
Why do grownups bother
to buy her all those toys?

A “bad” poem

Gripping the chain links with hands and feet,

we rise up high above the street.

The thin metal gives; we sway forward and back --

these old fences have so much slack --

which slows us down but doesn’t stop us

As long as cops don’t turn up to cop us.

Over the top! – it’s a delicate dance

to keep the spikes off our shirts and pants:

We clear that hurdle and down we go

into – well maybe you shouldn’t know…

but here we are, and it’s good to be

somewhere we plainly shouldn’t be.

Zoo Thought (in Ranger Rick)

The newborn llama
sits by her mama
already expert
in llama ways:
legs tucked under,
neck held high,
motionless head,
unblinking eye.

My baby brother
clings to my mother:
can't sit beside her--
can't even sit.
Can't focus his eyes,
just wiggles and cries,
doesn't look like her--
not one bit.

Why are llamas
born ready-to-run?
Why do humans
come out undone?

Making Dirt (in GreenChild Magazine)

We throw our veggie garbage in
A magic transformation bin
(that is, a giant, well-sealed box
where so-called compost sits and cooks).
In go carrot and potato peel,
onion skin and cold oatmeal,
apple cores and melon rinds
and other scraps of various kinds,
mixed with dried up leaves and grass,
all in one big tangled mass
that sits for weeks and settles down,
softens, crumbles, and turns brown.
We dump it out and spread it round
Our little garden, row by row,
where it helps make new veggies grow.
Nothing dies, but all things change:
Compost, like life itself, is strange.

With the Flow  (in Cricket)                                                                                                     

Sun so hot
the asphalt shimmers.
We glide down the court
like swimmers.

Breathing fire,
dripping wet.
Wearing nothing
but shorts and sweat.

Shot goes up --
faces lift.
Pulls us in its
downward drift.

Backbones bump
beneath the boards.
Arms go up
like crossing swords.

High bounce
off  the back of the rim.
Into the sticky air
we swim.

Ball's slapped loose,
bounces free.
Rico punches it
to me.

Power surge!
Fast break --
doubled-teamed --
double-fake.

Game is over.
Thirst is mean.
Thank God for a dollar
and a soda machine.

Phittt goes the bill,
chunk goes the can.
Icy metal
burns my hand.

Chemistry
of sweet sensation:
sugar, sweat
and carbonation.

Back on court
for one more hour
running on
sweat-and-soda power.