Poetry for Children

Coloring Magic

My coloring book

has a whole lot to say.

“Make me pink!” moans the hippo.

“Not boring old gray.”

 

“Give us spots!” roar the lions.

“We’re feeling too plain.”

“We need far more color,”

the zebras complain.

 

The giraffe begs, “Oh please!

Won't you make me sky blue?”

With my crayons, I make

all their wishes come true!

Diana Murray is the author of over a dozen children’s books, including  Unicorn Day, Ned the Knitting Pirate, and Goodnight, Veggies. Her poems also appear in magazines and anthologies such as Thanku: Poems of Gratitude. Visit her website at dianamurray.com.

Night Song

The crickets are playing a lullaby

Beneath a black and starry sky.

Tonight there is no moon in sight

And all the stars are very bright.

 

The frogs are singing here and there

And add their voices to the air

Like tiny tubas, soft and deep,

That coax the little gnomes to sleep.

 

Somewhere above an owl hoots;

A young gnome, sleeping with his boots,

Jumps quickly up and bumps his head,

Then snuggles back down in his bed.

 

In Grandma’s house the two dogs snore,

The great clock tick-tocks by the door,

And Grandma’s cat hunts for a mouse

That scratches somewhere in the house.

 

A pair of crickets, young and spry,

Grow tired of playing their lullaby,

And start to play a dancing tune

They play on nights with a waxing moon.

 

“Hush!” the older crickets chide,

“The fairies all have gone inside.

The moon is resting out of sight,

So gnomes and fairies sleep tonight.”

 

And so the crickets settle down

And serenade the fairy town,

While high up in the poplar trees

The leaves are clapping in the breeze.

Lorna Davis is a mostly classical poet whose work has been seen in Empirical Magazine, Rattle’s Poets Respond, and The Society of Classical Poets. She lives in the upper midwest United States.

with Robert Schechter

A mole was driving the bus

Tooting Bec, Clapham, Mitcham and Morden are all in South London

 

A mole was driving the bus today

from Tooting Bec to Clapham.

A mole was driving the bus today ―

an extraordinary thing to happen!

Sightless, relentless, he monstered the roads

with a honk and an “Oy!” and a twitch of his nose ―

a mole was driving the bus.

 

A mole was driving the bus today,

his shovel-like hands on the wheel.

A mole was driving the bus today,

apparently, not a big deal!

The passengers texted and talked of not much

while he roped in a rabbit to jump on the clutch ―

a mole was driving the bus.

 

A mole was driving the bus today

and we didn’t ask why, more’s the pity.

A mole was driving the bus today

as it tunnelled right under the city!

Now half a mile down below Mitcham or Morden,

we’re slaves to the rats, with a fox for a warden ―

a mole was driving the bus.

Nina Parmenter enjoys writing poems for people of all sizes from her home in Wiltshire, UK. Her work has previously appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin, The New Verse News, and Ink, Sweat & Tears.

Pete the Pixie

There’s a pixie living in my head,

He says his name is Pete

He makes me click my fingers and he makes me tap my feet

He makes me shake from head to toe,

He makes me dance around

But when I ask my mum to hear, he doesn’t make a sound.

Marvin the Moose

Marvin the moose wore a bowtie

While clattering around in the woods.

The cows in the field didn’t know why,

And wondered, while chewing their cuds.

The sheep didn’t have a clue either,

But Percy the pig had a hunch ―

He’d been past the farmhouse that morning,

And heard there’d be moose served for lunch.

“Rory, Rory, tell us a story,” the other kids used to cry. Okay, here goes. ― M. Rory Daws

If You were a Giraffe

If you were a giraffe,

with a drain-long, crane-strong, swing-along neck,

would you just eat leaves?

I wouldn’t.

I’d be a spy.

I’d peep over fences ten feet high,

and snoop through windows up in the sky,

and peer into aeroplanes cruising by,

spying all day with my aerial eye

to catch all the crooks and thieves.

Well, I’d do something anyway.

I wouldn’t just eat leaves.

Kate Williams is a children’s poet living in rural Wales, UK. On the rare occasions when it stops raining, she loves to wander in the fields for inspiration.

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