From the author:

From the Author:

I will not introduce myself.
I will not ask "How do?"
I will not wave, I will not bow,
Or shake a hand with you.

For I am not polite, my friend;
I have no social grace.
Like you, I have no manners,
And I never learned my place.

Instead I'll write a poem
And I'll put myself in verse,
And if you like the sound of me,
Well, THEN we might converse.

So read a line or two of me,
Or don't, if it's a chore,
But since you've read fifteen of me
I bet you'll read one more.

Click here to contact the author
(...or don't...he doesn't really trust emails from children. They can be sticky).

Tuesday, 31 May 2011

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.

Monday, 30 May 2011


"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 Rohinder 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, Rohinder!" 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 door.
"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?


I’m hanging upside-down from the monkey-bars at school.
It isn’t very popular and sure as heck ain’t cool.
The other kids are staring at me, thinking I’m a freak,
But I don’t mind, cause if I could, I’d hang here all the week!

Cause when the blood goes rushing down and roars around my head,
It sounds as though I’m not at school, but on the sea instead.
The waves are washing on the shore; the wind’s a wailing blast;
The clouds are sailing through the sky, like galleons plunging past.

So why should all those teachers get all crotchety and cross?
I know the recess bell has rung, but can’t they tell I’m lost?
I’m far a-sea; my loyal crew are pirates, hard but brave:
The storm has swept us far off course on every scurvy wave.

But still they tap upon my shoes and pull me from the sea,
And I look down upon the sky as they look down on me:
“My child, come down at once, for this is not where you should be.”
“I know,” I say, and in my head, I’m sailing on the sea.

Alphabet Soup

My name was Sally Dingle-Pratt.
Now how’d I get a name like that?

     Well, my mother was a Dingle and my father is a Pratt;
     They fell in love, and I was born,
     A baby Dingle-Pratt.

I was the only Dingle-Pratt,
And I was quite content with that.

     Then my mother left my father or my father left my mom
     Then mother married Larry
     And became a Finkelbaum.

Then mother took her Dingle-Pratt.
Away we went and that was that.

     And soon my little brother quite exploded on the scene,
     A little baby Finkel-BOMB,
     A baby poop-machine.

And still I was a Dingle-Pratt,
And getting less content with that.

     For there I was a Dingle-Pratt, and still the only one,
     With Finkelbaums surrounding me,
     So what else could be done?

Well, I became a Finkelbaum,
But dad got really mad at mom.

     With daddy so unhappy and with Finkelbaums galore,
     I gathered all my names around 
     And tried it all once more.

(Now the rhythm has to change;
It happens when a name gets strange):

     So now I’m a Dingle-Pratt-Finkelbaum. Phew!
     A mouthful of names for those with but two. 
     With a mom and two dads and each with a name
     And me with them all, all linked in a chain,
     I feel like I’m found; I feel like I’m bound;
     My name is the longest and craziest sound.

     Oh, sometimes I feel like I’m alphabet soup
     And everyone’s gathered around in a group.
     And each of them eats up a letter of me
     Till I’m swallowed up whole in the family tree.
     But maybe a name is a colourful ruse
     Made to amuse and made to confuse
     And made to disguise us in elegant hues
     And give us a thing that we think we can’t lose,
     Like walking through life with invincible shoes.
     Yes, I can wear any old name that I choose,
     So Dingle-Pratt-Finkelbaum IS what I’ll use.

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Hide and Seek

All the hiding places stink.
We’ve used them all before:
Behind the blinds, beneath the bed,
Around the closet door.

Now I’ve found a better place,
A sweeter, neater plan.
Come see if you can find me now;
Come catch me if you can.

Once I hid in the blink of an eye
And once in a blue moon.
Once I hid way back in a flash
And then one day in June.

I couldn’t hide in outer space
So I hid just in time.
Because I couldn’t find a place,
I’ve hidden here in rhyme.

Yes, I know places I can hide
That no one ever finds.
When I need to slip away,
I hide between the lines. 

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Lake Dream

The lake is dreaming of the sky and waking at the shore.
Pretending that the fish are clouds above its muddy floor.
The cloud is like a dragon in the blue blue sky,
Like a lazy dragon rising o’er the green tree line.
The dragonflies are golden and blue blue green,
The dragonflies are golden on the green green leaves.
The wind chimes are chiming in the sun-beam breeze
And the stones are cool and patient in a water-lapping ease.

The Things That I Snow

My teacher's a stuck-up and know-it-all bore
Who knows all he knows and won't think anymore.
For instance, he told me that winter is white,
But surely he can’t be entirely right.
From here where I sit, there is little to show
Such colourless, featureless, blankets of snow.

Look there, in the shade of the juniper tree.
There, where it’s slumbering. There, do you see?

See where the sun sinks sleepily through;
The snow drifts are dreaming in pillows of blue.

And when in the morning, the sun, with a yawn,
Outstretches its arms in the gold of the dawn,

The fields full of snow are transformed to a sea
Of summer-born honey, all flowing and free.

And when the sun swings its way low to the ground
To drop on the trees its imperial crown,
The snow is a robe of crimson and fire
That burns itself out as the evening expires.

Then deep in the night, in the crystalline cold,
The stars and the moon are all patient and old--

The snow is a blanket of silver and black,
A whole other sky a-twinkling back.

So I’ll sit and I’ll think about thinking and snow,
About people who think, about people who know. 

And you know what I think about people who know?
I think they don’t think about things like the snow.

To and Fro

When I stay at daddy’s house,
I have to make the bed;
I have to get up early,
Brush some order to my head.
His wife is always telling me
To change my dirty clothes.
As soon as I walk through the door
She raises up her nose,
“Take those off RIGHT NOW,” she barks,
“And put these on instead.
I’ll have to wash these dirty rags
Till all the fleas are DEAD!”
Then daddy makes me clean my room
Before I get to play,
But who can play in tidy rooms
Where toys are tucked away?

No, I prefer my mommy’s house,
Where nothing’s in its place;
Where all the nosey neighbours say,
“That boy is a DISGRACE!”
Cause mommy loves me as I am
And leaves me to be me.
I wear whatever rags I want;
I even like the FLEAS!
My homework never leaves my bag;
I never have to clean.
I drink soda pop with breakfast,
And the food is NEVER green.
All day, I run around the house,
And do just what I please.
At night I stay up very late
And watch late night TV.

But I can’t stay at mommy’s house;
I always have to go.
And I don’t live at daddy’s house;
I’m always to and fro.
Sometimes I think that I’m two kids,
My mommy’s and my dad’s:
A messy kid who must behave,
A happy kid who’s bad.

Friday, 27 May 2011

Grown-ups Are Stupid

A, B, A, B, R1, back.
That’s my favourite fist attack.
R1, B, B, rotate stick—
My spinal-crushing Dragon Kick.
I’m super-sonic mega fast
And cyber-strong with Atom Blast.
I know every trick and cheat;
Ain’t no baddie I can’t beat.

Ok, Uncle, you can try.
Just do your best; try not to die.
First you’ll need the Quasar Gun,
Then hit that pad for Alpha-Run.
Double-jump, then do a flip,
Find the secret hyper-ship.
That’s a hidden a portal there.
Can’t you see the cosmic tear?

That’s enough; you’ve had your turn.
Sometimes I think you’ll never learn.
You curse and sweat and thrash about,
You clumsy, awkward stupid lout!
Your hands are big, your fingers slow;
There’s just too much you’ll never know.
You think you’re big, you think you’re strong?
Don’t make me laugh; go play some Pong!

Why Being Bad is Good

I always get in trouble,
And I’m told I MUST behave.
I tried it once or twice for fun,
And acted like a slave:
They say "Do this!” and “Don't do that!”
“Do only what you should!”
Well, I’m here today to stand and say
That being bad is good.

Some rules are kinda stupid.
Like you gotta ask to pee?
My bladder never thought to ask
If it’s ok with me!
Write naughty notes, and cut the line,
Go running through the halls.
You’ll find the sky is still up high
And never EVER falls.

Parents think they know what’s best,
And teachers rule the schools,
But who’s to say they’ve got it right
When no one breaks the rules?
If rules don’t make much sense to me,
I break them, like I should,
To see if they should go or stay,
Cause being bad is good.

Thursday, 26 May 2011


I will not introduce myself.
I will not ask "How do?"
I will not wave, I will not bow,
Or shake a hand with you.

For I am not polite, my friend;
I have no social grace.
Like you, I have no manners,
And I never learned my place.

Instead I'll write a poem
And I'll put myself in verse,
And if you like the sound of me,
Well, THEN we might converse.

So read a line or two of me,
Or don't, if it's a chore,
But since you've read fifteen of me
I bet you'll read one more.