Best Kiddy Poems
on a ghostly night
princesses and "kiddy" cats -
alongside monsters -
scamper without a care
beneath a Halloween moon
Sept. 25, 2019
for Chantelle Anne Cooke's Halloween Moon Poetry Contest
Santas little helpers were busy having fun
Wrapping and labelling the presents ready for the Xmas run
The reindeer had their coats washed smelt of lavender and things
The sleigh had been revarnished was now bright and glowing.
The reigns were now polished as a surprise for Santa Claus
So he would look the kiddy not a drab old droopy drawers
The presents were in the sack, in house order for delivery
Santa admired his reigns not realising they were slippery.
He jerked the reigns as a nod for the reindeers"
To start their pulling then it happened, oh dear
The reigns slipped through Santa's fingers reindeer were off at speed
Luckily thomas was out with his tank engine knew he had to try and stop the steeds
He puffed along the track shouting at Santa to hang on tight
Then disappeared into a tunnel giving Santa such a fright
The minions were out in their millions pulling on the reigns to stop the race
While batman flew in voicing his opinion that a race at Xmas wasn't the place
Said to the minions you want to help, Santa is exhausted not in the mood to yo ho ho ho
Deliver these presents off you go but be quiet those children mustn't know
But if you peeped and saw yellow Santas Instead of the usual red one
It's the minions helping out until the presents are all gone.
Santa is snoring now he has had a stressful day
Think before you do more than help it sometimes doesn't pay .
Penned 26 November 2014
When mom, Naomi, was your mom not quite,
she was a barista at the Starbucks
just blocks away from where your thunderstruck
dad used to curse the name whose will to write
mistreated sonnets never metered right.
In those days, my daughter, a word like schmuck
would suit your father, quite determined luck,
not talent lacked, should bear the blame for shame
that came from lameness littered kiddy rhyme.
But, with each finished turd, your dad (undeterred)
would march to Starbucks like he’d made a name,
and talk to mom, who taught me, overtime,
love and beauty’s praise are sonnets’ preferred.
Dragon has left the winter behind; but’s still wound up & flighty as a bat.
He’s in competition with a friend, to be more creative than Dear old Jack.
He wants to make Dragon concrete art, for with Jack Ellison, to compete!
If Jack can do 1700 poems, he won’t rest until 1700 statues, are complete.
He already sells concrete Dragon footprints, popular wherever he goes.
We use them as stepping-stones on our land, everywhere, you know!
First he wants a leaning tower of Dragon, to help scare away our moles.
Then a Dragon Colosseum, within which to practice... our Ninja Trolls.
Next a splash pool you can walk thru, with Dragons to touch and to hold.
He’ll build the Great Wall of Dragon, complete with a kiddy slide, I’m told!
Another idea is a Statue of Liberty Dragon with music coming from inside.
All of it patriotic, as sung by our illustrious and greatly talented Troll choir.
Then Dragon street lamps, to light up & make life safer, throughout the lands!
The Mayor said he could make all this into a new tourist ‘Dragon Land’.
Disney World ‘Eat your heart out!’ We truly DO know, where IT is truly at!
But Dragon balked at being made a comic strip character at first, how sad!
But we told him Super Heroes are in comic books, throughout ALL the land.
Now he will become, ‘Dragon with a D’, of course, with lots of adoring fans.
If you want to be in his comics, Holler ‘HELP’! I’ll write you in, like a pro!
Between exploring his new escapades, he’ll be making his own statues, so...
Yea! He’s doing untold number of poses, to be put in…The City Park!
This should make the Sheriff of Crazyland, simply… Happy as a Lark!
We’ll start with a Dragon Festival there, with Dragon dances everywhere.
Firemen Welcome as Parade floats of Paper Dragons, dance as they sail by!
Dragon sees himself as a Super-dillious-ish Hero, as his stories spin each day!
But Dragon as a comic book figure? Naw! He can’t picture it… No Way!
So we’ll just have to keep that part to ourselves, as sparks fall on his parade.
For you simply have to remember that... REALITY is NOT his thing!
Written 5-21-2015
The lazy river wasn’t so lazy
In fact, you might say, it drove us crazy
What’s with the waterfalls and toddlers screaming?
I looked at my partner; she wasn’t beaming
Thunder Rapids left us doomed in darkness
Why did we think this ride would be harmless?
Two eight-foot drops suspended us mid-air
As two mature ladies, we had quite the scare
The Serpentine Serpent was a near-drowning
As huge blasts of water our lungs were downing
Nearly toppling as on our sides we raced our tube
My friend Sandra lost her balance in this jiffy-lube
Finally we headed for the “kiddy-land” ride
Where upon a thin sponge we did slip and slide
Too fast on one corner, Sandra flew
For shoulder repair, she needed “super glue”
Who’d believe a water park could render such pain
They carried us out on an “old folks” crane
Never to return, we vowed that day
This is a park where only “kids” should play
*Co-written with a super, but non-Souper, friend on April 15, 2015, less than a week after the true experience as we recover in ICU ;D
My Home Sweet Home (Part One)
New York City...My city of reality...my city of those broken dreams...my city of the business schemes...new york city....my home sweet home...the only place my heart will roam...so i could never ever leave it alone...new york city...my city of broken homes...my city of broken coble stones...my home sweet home...
New York City...how damaged it seems to be...but more beautiful than people see...so deep with secrets and schemes....that broke peoples dreams...a heart skips a beat...people labled bums living in the street...the weak could never speak of...once rich with love...drunk in the morning...park bench at night to sleep off the drug...
mean mug with a gangster lean shoulder shrug...little eyes bare witness growing up to become a thug...nightmares is kiddy play...innocent people slaying...government playing with our money...delaying our dreams...as they think its funny...but we still love our new york city...no lie...we could move but why..?
Why let those broken coble stoned stoops kill our dreams....? Why let the business schemes take our money we couldve used to fix broken scenes....? We are New Yorkers....home of great talkers....but no action.....beautiful lights....but knocked before we reach our heights....deadly fights....
staged in a park in the dark....different colors are threats...race factor and hate crime...amongst crime itself...yet we are still the greatest city...as silly as it may sound...I will be buried under New York City ground....
New York City......my city of reality....some day we will all see...triumph of humanity....where else would I be....right here....my home sweet home...
I will never leave it alone...
By: Peter T DeSpirito
To Winkin’
Blinkin’
and of course nod.
In terms of
symmetry
prose and
shish kabob.
The tricks and twirls
and polar light;
the flip and flare and star
of kiddy sleepless night
can rip and roar
and rankle up
a juicy fight,
in the twinkle of an eye.
Forget wit and woe
and places to and fro and
things obscure in fuzzy
wuzzy lights to
swing and sway in
wrinkled tights
or sit boldly still
daring you to
a contest of will
hanging in a drop
of drool falling from
yon wounded whipporwill.
Will he will or will he won’t, or
do the thing we don’t?
I see again in terms
of symmetry you see.
But mostly for the rhyme
I hear inside the room
just made for me
in terms of speech and
in the song of my
sweet cooing babe.
© 9/17/2016
Charles G. Henderson
I trip over the intricate details
Falling over, under, through
Coasting and rushing
Tasting and splitting
Your words
While you stagger on the surface
Unaware and oblivious
I hang on the memories of your past
Reliving your kiddy sensations
Crushed and enthralled
Hyper and confused
By growing
While you envision me the same
2D and stagnant
And my heart stings
Much like scraped knees
Because you can’t understand me
12.23.2013
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
Rear view mirror
Objects, objectively put, are closer
than they appear. But it doesn’t say it all.
With the fair signs that spewed forth once turning to
a slew of pre-twitter pseudo- tweets since.
I once put it down In form Octa-Tri :
In rhyme scheme: aab, bb, ccc .
(“ At the wheel
At night. Uneasy feel.
Narrow misses, though, in nobody’s midst.
Rows of reflectors mark lanes glaring through the mist,
Comforting coolness and sultry night coexist .
Cell service zones change, ding-dongs the phone
Heart fluttering alone
Night unknown”.)
A row of earthy images it failed
rather than showed ,images with eerie
librations and weary nutations .Which
was not Physics, but physiognomy of life.
Like when bashed by kiddy badasses and
basic arithmetic, or when up higher ,
combative but math a behemoth
all the same, and guided perfunctorily
often, and rarely with the right intent.
In the peccadilloes- round, the Tintern
Abbey Sycamore also loomed dour sans
creativity , but the three trees on
the low sky made sense , and then on to
T.ds. equations and tedious times
soured by sleep and steep sloth.
Ingenious in fair measure , now turning
ingenuous on the proving grounds , after,
in the space of a couple of cusps of
light and sound mom was no more and we
whimpered and simpered under a dad who cared
but did not seem to, in his straight-faced mode
Then came falsely flashing , faintly fuming ,
slapdash years of machines and mega hertz,
eggs and vegs, sex and senescence to remain
for ever weighed down by the wayside whey.
Bringing-up-kids-banality apart
( fed mainly on meds for just cough that recurred);
preferring palm-frond’s loftiness cum
deprivation to urban up-for-grabs
benefaction; and the mess of docs, deaths
and a mossy crock of living pain since.
And all the dicey way , never patted
but p(f)anned; tweaked , untweaked ; harmed, ex-harmed;
banked on , debunked ; short-changed, sort-of-changed ;
lumbering on , alive and a-slumbering
and if anything wondering if it’s
not all the mirror’s prim fault
which never once showed my face.
Wearisome Thuds and Music Thru the Wall
Brown, red, cinder walls, sounds from down the halls
Walls so thin the sounds echo off the walls
Woken by someone knocking on my door
Hush! Listen! It’s the stranger from next door
I fret and sweat, I'm so very upset
Will he complain about my lazy pet?
Slowly, lock my door, not making a sound
Quiet snort and very slow turnaround
A peep hole look beyond the door he calls
With shawl over my shoulders, my pet crawls
A hiding place kiddy and I to pray
Good night I say that he will stay away
5/13/2016 Revised
Who's Your Neighbor
Brown, red, cinder walls
Sounds from down the halls
Someone knocking on my door
It’s the stranger from next door
I fret and sweat, I'm so upset
Wonder if he likes lazy pets
A peep hole look was a let down
Beer belly, short, dressed like a clown
Quiet snort and a turnaround
Lock my door not making a sound
9/8/2015
Odd roadside stall
Newsy newsprint;
Brisk disaster sells
~~~~~~~~~
Hardware insights
Self-Help projects;
Crafty poise
~~~~~~~~~
Evening dark
Deserted park;
Empty ark
~~~~~~~~~
Primal pose
Playground excursions;
Kiddy laughter
~~~~~~~~~
Traffic accident
Human error hurls;
Proud regrets shout
~~~~~~~~~
Brisk brush strokes
Calligraphy moves;
Artwork erupts
~~~~~~~~~
Old miniature book
Tells another story;
Beyond print run
~~~~~~~~~
Another tale
Tells on you;
Business acumen
~~~~~~~~~
Line by line
Echoes rhyme;
Poetic impulse
~~~~~~~~~
Joy seeps
Charm knows;
Sublime moments
~~~~~~~~~
Grass verge array
Unnoticed flowers;
Grace attends
~~~~~~~~~
Morning Glory
Floral vines creep;
Warm sunshine styles
~~~~~~~~~
Old memories haunt
Stagnant corridors;
Sepia escapade
~~~~~~~~~
Talk of town
Rumours sublimate;
Non solid state
~~~~~~~~~
Little boy here
Don't ever grow up;
Helpless strains smear
~~~~~~~~~
Passing clouds
Fluffy dreams float;
Cotton candy
~~~~~~~~~
Precious Moments
Cute figurines sculpt;
Strokes heart health
~~~~~~~~~
Morning espresso
Caffeine intervenes;
Sleepy eyes droop
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
02 June 2016
Singapore
An unfruitful fruit A work of darkness masquerading as kiddy lights This monstrous melon is a death’s head a desire of a foolish dead fire Reminiscent of the cruel druid’s witchery where the lighted skull and heads of enemies are displayed on walls and doors as if they could catch a soul and bake it in the sun the old un, leading children away into the dark like a will-o'-the-wisp Hiding in plain sight a garden goblin with glowing hollow eyes A heal grabber dragging them into the darkness of night with its false lights and evil grin drawing the children in like they did then looking for a human sacrifice In which they hope they do not return from the black harvest of the spiritually unknown Where good little straw boys and girls march the winters king to the burning man turning them into fearful little sack men and women An unholy flame wick wicked wicker wickedest The coco nut laughs and Halloween chants drown out The burning screams wrapped in the flames It is have, no fellowship with unfruitful works of darkness Not adopt a jack-o'-lantern to lead a dark path So go ahead smash the pumpkin is not so great
A lovable person
Beautiful smile
Cute face, chunky waist
Deviled mind
Enhanced intellgence
Filled with happy times
Gentle tender kisses
Held by you
In a
Jar filled with
Kiddy games we
Loved to play
Months before it got to late
Numbers lost
Over time while
Painted notes of ours
Quest to
Run in colored
Seas
Torn apart in
Unrated love
Vowels
Washed with
Xs and Os
You sealed with a
Zeolus kiss that we both miss
Memories
You’re a constant reminder of the time that got away,
When seemly not enough hours were available in the day.
I remember all the firsts, and how time seemed to fly,
And now that their gone brings a tear to the eye.
No more constant crying or pacing the floor,
No more frantic worrying of what we could do more.
No more midnight feedings or diapers to throw away,
No more anticipation of the first words you might say.
No more carpet crawling or standing up with a chair,
No more waiting for your first step or food in the hair.
No more cuddly pajamas with the feet built right in,
No more making funny faces just to see you grin.
No more little kisses while sitting on my knee,
No more tippytoes when you were trying to see.
No more kiddy game and hiding out of sight,
No more storybooks before you say goodnight.
No more first day of school or combing your hair,
No more silky blankets or praying teddy bear.
No more crawling in between us in the middle of the night,
No more saving your clothes or measuring your height.
No more tricycles, training wheels, or riding your first bike,
No more blushing moments with girls that you like.
No more dressing like your father or wearing what’s picked out,
No more dress button shirts or pants with a belt.
Oh my precious, handsome son, why you had to grow?
Where’s that little boy that I use to know?
I love looking forward but it hard looking back,
When you’re growing up so quickly and I’m powerless to react.
Make me a promise that you’ll never go away,
And that we’ll keep making memories with every passing day.