Reading Level: Grade 4

Poems suitable for reading by 9-10 year olds.

Dear Santa, Did You Get My Tweet?

Dear Santa, did you get my tweet
of presents I would think are sweet?
And what about my Facebook post
of toys and stuff I want the most?

Dear Santa, did you read my blog?
That’s where I keep a running log
of all the times that I’ve been good
and doing things I know I should.

I hope you saw my Instagram,
my email wasn’t flagged as spam,
you’ve seen my YouTube channel too
and all my texts have made it through.

Wait, does the North Pole even get
computers and the Internet?
I hope it does. I mean, it better,
or I might have to write a letter.

Santa Brought a Bar of Soap

Santa brought a bar of soap.
I asked him for a phone, but nope.
I didn’t get that brand new phone.
Just soap, and fancy French cologne.
He also brought some new shampoo,
some shower gel, and toothpaste too,
a scented candle for my room,
a dozen bottles of perfume,
deodorant and body spray…
I wonder what he’s trying to say?

I’d Like to Meet an Alien

id-like-to-meet-an-alien

I’d like to meet an alien.
Yeah, wouldn’t that be neat?
I’m sure there’s not another
creature I would rather meet.

I wouldn’t care if he was big,
or medium, or tiny,
or if his skin was rough and tough,
or super smooth and shiny.

I’d like him if his head were bald
or covered up with hair.
I’d like him if his face were round,
triangular, or square.

He could be colored black and white,
or yellow, red, and green.
He might be awfully dirty
or meticulously clean.

I’d like him if he whispered
and I’d like him if he yelled.
I’d like him if he used perfume
or positively smelled.

It wouldn’t matter much to me
if he was soft or scaly,
or if he danced the rhumba
or he played the ukulele.

He could look like a lizard
or be furry and mammalian.
I’d simply like to scare my mom
by bringing home an alien.

Nobody Touch My Tarantula Sandwich

Nobody touch my tarantula sandwich.
This sandwich is only for me.
And please stay away
from my cockroach soufflé
and my cobra and rat fricassee.

Don’t take a drink of my spider-blood cider,
or nibble my lizards on rye.
And don’t make a meal
of my barbecued eel
or my rattlesnake-jellyfish pie.

Please keep your mitts off my octopus pudding.
Don’t dine on my porcupine dip.
And don’t take a chew
of my centipede stew
or a sip of my scorpion whip.

If I had Snickers, or Hershey’s, or Reese’s,
I promise I’d offer to switch.
But there’s no good eating
for kids trick-or-treating
outside of the home of a witch.

When Chemists Die, They Barium

when-chemists-die-they-barium

When chemists die, they barium.
Dead kings get throne away.
Magicians simply disappear.
Dog catchers go astray.

When chauffeurs pass, they lose their drive.
Dead ranchers get deranged.
Composers simply decompose,
while bankers are unchanged.

It’s said that swimmers have a stroke.
Mechanics are retired.
The end for human cannonballs
is often when they’re fired.

Librarians, they just check out.
Shoemakers get the boot.
Old cows just kick the bucket, and
dead owls don’t give a hoot.

When travel agents go
they take a permanent vacation,
and dead cartoonists end up
in suspended animation.

My Puppy Ate My Earbuds

My puppy ate my earbuds.
My puppy ate my socks.
My puppy chewed my tennis shoes
and all my Lego blocks.

He gnawed upon my iPod
as if it were a bone.
He nibbled my Nintendo Switch
and munched my mobile phone.

He grazed upon my skateboard,
consumed my catcher’s mitts,
and chomped my chess and checkers sets
to tiny little bits.

He polished off my pillow,
my blanket, and my sheet.
My homework seems to be the
only thing he will not eat.

My Sister Says She’s Sleepy

My sister says she’s sleepy,
that her energy is sapped.
She says she’d feel much better
if she climbed in bed and napped.

She says she feels so drowsy,
that she has to shut her eyes.
She just can’t keep from closing them
no matter how she tries.

She’s claims she’s so exhausted
that she cannot stay awake.
She swears that she’ll be useless
till she has a little break.

She says she needs to catch some Z’s,
to hit the hay, to doze,
to hibernate, to dream,
to have a moment of repose.

I’m pretty sure she’s faking
when she jumps in bed and snores.
This happens every time our mother
says to do her chores.

A Valentine for Mom

a-valentine-for-mom

I bought a box of chocolates
for my mother’s valentine;
a giant, heart-shaped package
with a flowery design.

They had them at the market
and I got the biggest one.
I nearly couldn’t pick it up.
It must have weighed a ton.

I had to use a shopping cart
to haul it from the store.
At home I almost couldn’t
even fit it through the door.

I gave it to my mother
and you should have seen her eyes!
I clearly had impressed her
with my chocolate box’s size.

That carton was gargantuan —
the largest I could find —
but not because I’m generous
and not because I’m kind.

I didn’t buy the biggest one
to show how much I care.
I bought it just to guarantee
my mom would have to share.

Mr. Yes and Mr. No

mr-yes-and-mr-no

Mr. Yes and Mr. No
could not decide which way to go.

They walked all day. They walked all night.
They first turned left, and then turned right.
They ran along a railroad track
then turned around and came right back.
They wandered in and out of town.
They hiked up hills and stumbled down.
They strolled in straight lines, circles, squares.
They climbed up ladders, stomped down stairs,
but everywhere they ever went
they wound up there by accident
because the two could not agree
on where to go or what to see.

We don’t know where they are today.
They’ve wandered off and gone astray.
And no one has the slightest guess
where Mr. No and Mr. Yes
have ended up and might be found;
perhaps upstairs or underground,
or in a cab, or overseas,
or on the shores of Lake Louise,
or paddling up the Amazon.
That is to say, they’re simply gone.

But if they do turn up one day
I think it might be best if they
decided not to rove and roam,
like Mr. Maybe.
He’s at home.

Roses are Red

roses-are-red

Roses are red
(it has often been said),
and so is the welt
swelling up on my head.

Violets are blue
(I’ve no doubt that it’s true).
The bruise that I’ve got
on my cheekbone is too.

Daisies are white
(I expect this is right),
and so is my face
as I’ve had quite a fright.

That’s why this tip
isn’t something to skip:
It’s fine to give flowers,
but try not to trip.