Zombie Land

Early in the morning 
When the sun's a zombie gray.
I wear my zombie costume
And start my zombie day.
There may be other living kids 
Within the zombie horde,
But they're too scared to show themselves 
Before our Zombie Lord.

I stick my body stiff and bent 
Upon my zombie chair
And freeze my eyeballs forward
In a zombie-stricken stare.
And when the slouching zombie-kids
Undroop or lurch around,
I raise my hand and zombie-groan,
Then sit without a sound.

I sit and dream of summer days,
Beneath a swelling sun.
I dream that I am free to play,
And free to chase and run.
But here I fear I'll lose my brain
Within this zombie hell.
Oh please, before I go insane,
Just ring the recess bell!

Hugry

You're hugry? What's hugry?
You're HUNGRY, I say!
Why must you insist
That you're hugry today?

For child, I'm afraid
That isn't a word.
You're missing an N;
Your word is absurd!

Now what's this you do?
Let go of me, please!
Stop this embracing
And loosen this squeeze!

A hug is not food!
A hug cannot feed,
And hugging is not
An imperative need!

And still you persist
And beam as you do,
While closing your eyes
And squeezing me blue.

Well, this I'll admit:
That hugging is nice,
And living without them
Just wouldn't suffice.

But I'd go a month,
For certain a week,
A day is no problem
If hugless and bleak.

And now you have finished,
Released me at last,
Finally left your
Embracing repast.

That's good!...yet not quite...
Well, this will not do!
For now it appears
That I'm hugry too.

The Promise

Biting's fun,

I like to pinch,

I like it when I make you flinch.

Then you shout,

and say, "That's bad!

You're a naughty no-good lad!"

"Biting's wrong,

And pinching stings.

Promise not to do these things!"

Yes, I see,

You're right, I say.

I will not hurt in any way.

Cross my heart

And hope to die,

Stick a needle in my eye.

There are Zombies in the Schoolyard

There are zombies in the schoolyard;

There are zombies in the park.

There are zombies in the daylight;

There are zombies in the dark.

There are zombies in the boulevards

And zombies in the lanes.

The zombies limping through the school

Have eaten all the brains.

There are zombies in the barber shop

And zombies at the gym.

The butcher is a zombie now;

He's selling human limbs.

There are zombies in the shopping mall

And zombies in the road.

The zombies in the restaurants

Eat waiter a la mode.

There are zombies in the garden;

There are zombies on the lawn.

There are zombies in the houses,

And the neighbours are all gone.

There are zombies at the chimneys;

There are zombies climbing walls:

The zombie Mrs. Rosencrantz

Gets deader when she falls.

There are zombies in the basement;

There are zombies on the roof.

My sister is a zombie now;

She's still a smelly goof.

There are zombies in the attic

And underneath the floor.

My zombie-dad is growling,

But not about my chores!

There are zombies in the hallway,

There are zombies at my door.

I don't think I'll be writing

About zombies anymore...

Writing Lines

If I could make my teacher take detention and do lines,
I’d make her copy out these words one hundred thousand times:
“I will not give detention and I will not lose my cool;
I will not make you write out lines for hours after school.
And when I've finished writing this one hundred thousand times,
I'll learn that kids don’t learn a thing from writing all these lines.”

The Gurgler

My mother says, “Beware! Beware!

For surely there’s an angry bear!”

My brother says the wolves will growl

When they’re too close to howl.

But there’s no creature in the wood

Who scares me like the Gurgler could.

My father says, “There’s no such beast!”

And isn’t frightened in the least.

He strides right down the slippery rocks

And climbs up on the Gurgler’s dock

And hangs his big and meaty feet

To let the greedy Gurgler eat.

He’s lucky he ain’t lost ‘em! Well,

I’m sure it’s cause they REALLY SMELL!

I bet by now you know this creep

Who wallows in the water’s deep,

Who when the water level’s right

Slithers in the dark of night

To hide beneath your cottage dock

And gurgle round the slimy rocks.

I’m sure you’ve waded in the lake

And felt his twiggy fingers take

A pinch of your big toe to feel

If there’s enough to make a meal.

Or maybe as you’ve pulled and strained

To clamber on the dock again,

You’ve missed your step and swung beneath

And kicked you legs in dreadful grief

And felt the clammy, muddy gunk

That settles on the Gurgler’s trunk.

I’m told there is but one sure way

To make the Gurgler go away:

You have to find that one bright place

That glimmers back the sun’s bright face

Upon the glassy rippling lake,

And in an orange bucket take

Pail-fulls of the shining stuff.

And when you think you have enough,

Quickly, quickly take it back

And pour it down the narrow cracks

Between the boards upon the dock.

In seconds it’ll start to rock

And splash about the lake until

You feel like you’re about to spill.

Then all will quickly fall quite still,

And you will know that you have killed
The Gurgler 'neath the dock.

A Cure for School

I've boarded the bus;
my brother has not.
He's sick and at home,
but look what I've got.

This tonic will cure you

of school and its pains.

The trick's in the stuff

this concoction contains:

Some sweat from my brother,

the spit from his sneeze

the phlegm from his hanky,

the snot on his sleeve,

Stirred-up together

in bottles to sell--

One sip and I promise

You're feeling unwell.

Report Card

This letter's fantastic; it flashes and flares.

It's Ferris wheels flying around at the fair.

It's fireflies flickering far in the fields.

It's feeling the fish on the fishing rod reel.

It's families feasting in festival fun,

Flowers and friendship and favours we've done.

See all the fabulous things it can be?

So why are you frowning and fuming at me?

F is for fearful, forget and forgive.

Be fair and forbearing and let your kid live!

Skipping to Daisies and Grass

Out of the town and into the sun;

The withering walls forgotten and done.

     I'm breathing the wind-light at last

     And skipping to daisies and grass,

            My friends,

     I'm skipping to daisies and grass.

The prodigal daisies unbend to the sun,

The grasses are chasing the breezes in fun,

     The breezes are rippling past,

     And I'm wading through daisies and grass,

            My friends,

     I'm wading through daisies and grass.

The flowers and fields escape to the sky,

Rising above where the meadowlarks fly.

     The clouds unfurl as they pass--

     And I'm running up daisies and grass,

            My friends,

     I'm running up daisies and grass.

The grasses are sighing their songs to the sun,

Who folds them and flies them where fears are undone

     And dreamers can leap up at last,

     I'm bounding up daisies and grass,

            My friends,

     I'm bounding up daisies and grass.

While down in the town, the people are small--

The church and its steeple, the court and Town Hall,

     The school with its teachers, and you all in class.

     I'm flying with daisies and grass,

            My friends,

     I'm flying with daisies and grass.

My Brother's a Zombie!

I just can't deny it,

Can no longer hide it,

My brother's a zombie for sure.

The proof is quite clear;

They've turned him, I fear,

And it's sad cause there isn't a cure.

He's almost fourteen,
His toenails are green,
He's got spots all over his face.
He's lanky and grey,
Cause he hides from the day
And his hair is all over the place.

When trying to play

He wanders away,

Dragging his feet like they're lead.

When I throw him the ball

He just lets it fall,

Or it bounces right off of his head.

He can't really walk,

And he can't really talk,

He's immune to what mom and dad say.

When asked to do chores,

He looks at the floors,

Then grunts as he shuffles away.

And look at his room!

The dusty old tomb,

Where pizzas and hamburgers rot;

Who but the dead

Could sleep in a bed

That smells like a sock-stewing pot.

Yes, it's perfectly clear,

It's certain, I fear.

The proof is infallibly plain.

What proves it the most

Is he's dumb as a post

Cause zombies have eaten his brain.                                              

Like this poem?  Try these ones: Zombie Land, There are Zombies in the Schoolyard

El Dorado

There’s a place we kids all dream about,

But never ever see;

A land of play and plenty

Where we’d really like to be.

And maybe when we’re free from school,

We’ll find a way to fly

To this schoolyard El Dorado

Just below the schoolyard sky.

I’m sure you once have dreamed of it,

And in your dreamy nights

You’ve seen a field of tennis balls,

Of frisbees and of kites,

Way up on the schoolhouse roof,

Where flying toys are blown

To this schoolyard El Dorado

That we’ve never ever known.

Just think of all the years gone by!

Just think of all the games!

Just think of all the toys that fly!

Just think of all their names:

The rubber-banded-rocket-ship,

The boomerang, the plane,

They’ve flown to El Dorado

And there they still remain.

I tell you, I will go one day:

To El Dorado’s heights.

And see the fields of tennis balls

Of frisbees and of kites.

And looking up, you’ll see me there,

Against the schoolyard clouds

In a schoolyard El Dorado

Where us kids are not allowed.

I’ll fill the sky with toys that fly;

I’ll throw them to the ground.

They’ll gladly land in open hands,

Like gold, they’ll tumble down.

And all will know that long ago

One kid once made his way

To the schoolyard El Dorado,

Where it's always Saturday.

My Own Time

I'm sick of meticulous poetry

That's carefully crafted, composed,

Respectably rhythmed and properly rhymed,

Logically structured and tickety-timed,

Where roses and shepherds repose.

No, I'll find my own time,

my own rhythm,

my own rhyme.

Catch the beat.

Watch my feet.

This poem knows;

it sows, it grows

its own kinda rose.

My Brother's Got a Secret

My brother's got a secret,
And he's quiet as can be.

He's locked it in his noggin,
And he's thrown away the key.

Torture him or tease him,

Or tickle till he cries,

He won't give in or say one word

To anyone who tries.

Not the wedgiest of wedgies,

Nor the purple nurple's pinch,

No rain of charlie horses

Will ever make him flinch.

There's nothing to be done, I guess.
That kid, he's got some spine.
His lips are sealed, he'll never yield,
Because that secret's mine.

Detention

I didn’t really do it.
I’m not the one to blame.
I know it didn’t look too good,
But it was just a game.
But, there it is; I’m guilty.
Red-handed, as they say.
Forevermore I’m branded
As the kid who went astray.
I'd like to stray right home.
Boy, that clock is slow!
Its minute hand is broken
And the teacher doesn’t know.
Now I’m going loopy.
I tell you this ain’t right—
To keep a kid alone at school
So late into the night.
Ok, it isn’t dark,
But I could use a snack.
And if I starve and die right here
I’m never coming back.
Then they’ll all be sorry.
Then they’ll all be sad:
Sorry that they starved the kid
Who wasn’t really bad.
Then they’ll take my teacher
And lock him in a cell,
So he'll be in detention then,
And I'll raise holy hell!

Come All, The Moon

Come all, come all 
and hold my feet—
I’m falling
to the moon.
It’s calling, calling
with the fleeting
calling
of the loon.
I’m falling, falling
up the sky
behind
the bright balloon,
where tall and walled,
a city lies
amid moon-dusty dunes,
and all its halls
are pearly white
and filled
with silver rooms,
and all, oh all
the moonswept nights
are endlessly
in June.
Come all, the call’s
enthralling me—
I’m falling
to the moon.

Where the Frogs Are

I often feel too crowded out,
And sometimes I have tried
To find a place to get away,
And now I have espied
The place the water meets the shore
Where froggies hop and hide.

If I could make myself real small
And dark and slimy-wet,
Then maybe I could join them there,
And if I did, I bet
That all these people bugging me,
I’d very soon forget.

If I could join the happy frogs
Who sit upon the rocks,
I’d flap my flippin’ flippered feet
And throw away my socks,
And whisper to the Gurgler
Who hides beneath the docks.

I’d warm myself upon the shore,
Upon my rocky bed;
The sun and breeze would play upon
My wet and shiny head,
And chase the water down my back
And leave me dry instead.

And when my skin was hot and dry
And baking on the stone,
The lapping lake would sing to me,
And softly call me home
To cool, caressing waters,
Where I’m happy and alone.

Amid the rippling wavelets,
You might hear a little plop,
And from the corner of your eye,
Might see me as I hop
And splash into the water
With a little belly flop.

And I’ll be where it’s dark and cool,
With mud between my toes,
Where cozy stones will cradle me,
Where minnows drift and doze:
A special, secret froggy place
Where no one ever goes.

The other little, bratty kids
Who rant and rave and rail,
Who try to catch and put me
In their nasty little pails,
May try and try to trap me,
But will always, always fail.

No, they will never catch me,
And no more will I cry,
Cause I am full of froggy tricks,
And now I have espied,
The place the water meets the shore,
And froggies hop and hide.

I will not Share

I've got a bunch of awesome stuff,
Like games and toys and stuff.
All my stuff’s the coolest stuff.
You gotta see my stuff!
I love my stuff—there’s just enough
Of stuff to keep me playin’.
And I’m real tough—I keep my stuff
From wandering off and strayin’.
So all beware—I will not share.
I’ll stuff my stuff away.
I’ll stuff it almost anywhere,
So no one else can play.
I’ll stuff it in my dresser drawers,
And underneath my bed.
I’ll stuff the stuff beneath the floors, and down my pants, and up the tree, and over there, 
            and under here, or maybe there instead.
And when my stuff is stuffed away
And no one else can play,
I’ll stuff the sun and clouds and sky
And hide the day away.
Then all the parks and fields and trees
Will all be mine to own.
When all the world is stuffed away
I’ll play all day  . . .  alone.

Uncle Song

We’re gonna steal our uncle
and stick him in a box
and put him in our closet
with an iron door that locks.
And then we’ll always have him,
and then he’ll always stay,
and we’ll only ever feed him
when he promises to play.
And if we ever let him out,
we’ll chain him to the floor,
and never let him meddle
with our barricaded door.
We’ll make him play our favorite games
And never set him free,
except perhaps at Christmas
when we’ll tie him to the tree.

Dodgeball

"It's dodgeball day!" said Mr. Cleat. "Sixteen to a team!"

And every student froze with fear, and one let out a scream.

This crazy game is ruthless; it's a mad chaotic war

In which everyone's ballistic and there's no esprit de corps:

Some stand as still as matadors and "Olé!" past the balls.

Some hide behind their classmates; some others hug the walls.

Some wildly run from side to side, just hoping for best.

Some can't decide quite what to do and fall before the rest.

But run or hide or deke or dodge, you'll get it in the end.

This game is cruel and has one rule: no one is your friend.

We scattered on our separate sides and readied for the fight

And when the silver whistle blew, the balls shot left and right.

Jenny lost her footing, and took one in the face.

Her hair went flying everywhere; she staggered back a pace.

The swollen mark around her eye was slowly turning red.

She zombied round all dizzy, then took two hits in the head.

Michael and Christina came in running from the sides

Both of them were dodging balls in ziggy-zaggy strides.

One was zigging in the middle where the other zagged across

But they didn't hit each other, cause they body-flattened Ross.

Rebecca grabbed a rolling ball and stuck to it like glue;

If one less ball was in the game, she just might make it through,

But when her feet were taken out by two careening throws,

Without her hands to catch her fall, she landed on her nose.

When only one was standing in a panic-stricken daze,

Mr. Cleat applauded in a battle-hungry craze.

"Good game!" he called to Jenny, who glared with one good eye.

"Good dodgin' there, Christina!" who was trying not to cry.

Now we don't mind some roughness, and we don't like to complain,

But Mr. Cleat's sadistic and delights in all our pain.

I tell you he was beaming as we hobbled to the doors.

"That was great!" he told us, "And, tomorrow, back for more!"

So we'll be back tomorrow, and we'll play the crazy game.

We'll fling them and we'll zing them and we'll carefully take aim.

But Mr. Cleat is gonna find there's something we discussed:

There's only one of Mr. Cleat and thirty-two of us.

In the Hall

I'm in the hall
and can't recall
just what I did to earn it.

The teach was mad,
so I was "bad."
I guess I'm here to learn it.

When I awoke
my heart was broke
to leave my bed for school.

Now outta class
and free at last,
I wonder, who's the fool?