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).

Friday, 17 June 2011

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.


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 should be straying 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 killed 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
of the loon.

I’m falling, falling
up the sky
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.

Sunday, 5 June 2011

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.