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 brief sampling -- a couple of new, a couple of 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?

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?

What’s Left Behind

Along the beach, 

shells beyond measure

piled like abandoned treasure

gleam like stained glass in the sun.

There’s something here for everyone:

Flat as coins or sharp as spears

smooth like olives, whorled like ears,

milky moons, transparent chips,

oval bowls like little ships,

multicolored minarets,

scripts in alien alphabets,

stripes and dots and rainbow swirls,

bright as rubies, opals, pearls.

A billion creatures long since dead

left these jewels on the sea bed,

and tides at work for evermore

dragged them slowly to the shore.

When I am gone, I hope by grace

to leave a small, smooth, shining trace.

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.