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Best Famous Kindergarten Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Kindergarten poems. This is a select list of the best famous Kindergarten poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Kindergarten poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of kindergarten poems.

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Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus

 In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn't anybody's joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws.
In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE.
He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus.
Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early.
Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking.
He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor.
What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.
' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't.
Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up.
All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint.
Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

America America!

 I am a poet of the Hudson River and the heights above it,
 the lights, the stars, and the bridges
I am also by self-appointment the laureate of the Atlantic
 -of the peoples' hearts, crossing it 
 to new America.
I am burdened with the truck and chimera, hope, acquired in the sweating sick-excited passage in steerage, strange and estranged Hence I must descry and describe the kingdom of emotion.
For I am a poet of the kindergarten (in the city) and the cemetery (in the city) And rapture and ragtime and also the secret city in the heart and mind This is the song of the natural city self in the 20th century.
It is true but only partly true that a city is a "tyranny of numbers" (This is the chant of the urban metropolitan and metaphysical self After the first two World Wars of the 20th century) --- This is the city self, looking from window to lighted window When the squares and checks of faintly yellow light Shine at night, upon a huge dim board and slab-like tombs, Hiding many lives.
It is the city consciousness Which sees and says: more: more and more: always more.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children

 God has pity on kindergarten children,
He pities school children -- less.
But adults he pities not at all.
He abandons them, And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours In the scorching sand To reach the dressing station, Streaming with blood.
But perhaps He will have pity on those who love truly And take care of them And shade them Like a tree over the sleeper on the public bench.
Perhaps even we will spend on them Our last pennies of kindness Inherited from mother, So that their own happiness will protect us Now and on other days.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Natures Touch

 In kindergarten classed
 Dislike they knew;
And as the years went past
 It grew and grew;
Until in maidenhood
 Each sought a mate,
Then venom in their mood
 Was almost hate.
The lure of love they learned And they were wed; Yet when they met each turned Away a head; Each went her waspish way With muted damns-- Until they met one day With baby prams.
Then lo! Away was swept The scorn of years; Hands clasped they almost wept With gentle tears.
Forgetting hateful days, All mother mild, Each took with tender praise The other's child.
And now they talk of milk, Of diapers and such; Of baby bosoms silk And tender to the touch.
A gemlike girl and boy,-- With hope unsaid, Each thinks with mother joy: 'May these two wed!'
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem


 She looks rather pathetic, really,
leaning against the black air,
the three mangled fingers of her left hand
clutching a yellow purse,
her right arm raised over her head
as if to shield herself
from the silver shower of stars
raining down upon her.
Her mouth is a crack growing beneath her nose.
Two dimples open like holes in her cheeks.
A pink ear dangles from her chin.
Looking at it now, it's clear.
But who could have possibly know then the dark shades of meaning lurking in the shadow of her face, the quiet relevance of the pearl necklace swimming around her neck, the orange birds drifting above her like question marks? Or that twenty years later it would all make sense- the way her eyes roll toward the sky, the way my father stands behind her in the crowd, arms waving in the wind, as if he's slowly drowning in the black sea of faces.

Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Fury Of Overshoes

 They sit in a row 
outside the kindergarten, 
black, red, brown, all 
with those brass buckles.
Remember when you couldn't buckle your own overshoe or tie your own overshoe or tie your own shoe or cut your own meat and the tears running down like mud because you fell off your tricycle? Remember, big fish, when you couldn't swim and simply slipped under like a stone frog? The world wasn't yours.
It belonged to the big people.
Under your bed sat the wolf and he made a shadow when cars passed by at night.
They made you give up your nightlight and your teddy and your thumb.
Oh overshoes, don't you remember me, pushing you up and down in the winter snow? Oh thumb, I want a drink, it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there, taking giant steps all day, each day and thinking nothing of it?