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).

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.


  1. Hi, can't find an email address for you! I like your poems and I've posted a link to you from my website of poetry for children. I hope you'll consider linking back to me from your page! Check it out and let me know!
    Sparrow's Garden:

    Katharine L. Sparrow

    1. Hi Katherine! Thanks for reading my poetry and linking to the site. Your poetry is enchanting. I especially like "Hush." I'd be happy to place a link to your site.

      Warmest regards,