A lot of my poems are inspired by things that happen in my own life. I wrote this one while my wife was watching a football game with her sister and brother-in-law, and I was in the other room working on a poem. As they cheered at the TV, it made me think about how different people in the same family often want to watch completely different things. That reminded me that many families wait until Christmas to make big purchases—like a brand-new TV—and that sometimes, instead of bringing everyone together, it can create a whole new set of arguments. Football? Parades? Christmas cartoons? A holiday movie? Everyone has a favorite. I started wondering what might happen if nobody could agree on what to watch on their shiny new television. That little idea was enough to spark this poem. Our Brand-New TV For Christmas, our gift was a brand-new TV. We couldn’t agree, though, on what we should see. My sister said, “We should all watch the parade.” Our dad said, “The football game’s on, I’m afraid.” My brother said, “Let’s watch a Christmas cartoon!” Our mom said, “A good movie’s starting at noon.” We squabbled and fought over what we should see for hours and hours but couldn’t agree. And meanwhile, our dog, who did not get a vote, just sat down and chewed up the TV remote. The TV’s now stuck from the way that he chewed. It only shows squirrels and close-ups of food. And, strangely, we all liked his channel much better. It turns out our dog is a great TV setter. — Kenn Nesbitt

I’ve always loved building snowmen. When my kids were younger, we used to spend whole winter afternoons rolling giant snowballs around the yard, hunting for the perfect sticks for arms, and deciding how he should be dresses and decorated. Which hat would work best? Should he have a scarf or a tie? Does he really need a carrot nose or would a button work just as well? This year, I started thinking about how much personality a snowman seems to have by the time you’re done with it. You give it a hat, a scarf, and a pipe, and suddenly it feels like a character—someone who might have opinions about your artistic decisions. I wondered what would happen if a snowman actually could share those opinions. That little idea was enough to spark this poem. The moment I imagined a half-finished snowman watching me choose its accessories, I knew I wanted to write about it. What would a snowman say? What would it care about? What would it absolutely not want? I hope you enjoy the result. Snow’s Nose I made a new snowman out in our front yard. It didn’t take long and it wasn’t too hard. I stacked up some snowballs. I gave them a pat, then threw on a scarf, and a pipe, and a hat. I sculpted some feet from a little more snow, and stuck in some sticks where his arms ought to go. I added some coal for his buttons and eyes, and that’s when he spoke, to my utter surprise. He said to me, “Thanks for the hat, scarf, and pipe. The sticks that you picked are exactly my type. “Now bring me some carrots. You picked all my clothes, but really, I don’t want you picking my nose.” — Kenn Nesbitt

I love writing poems about the holiday season, so I wanted to start December off with a new funny poem about Santa Claus. To get myself in the right festive mood, I reread Clement Clarke Moore’s classic poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” better known as “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” As I was reading, a couple of lines jumped out at me: He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; I couldn’t help noticing something amusing about the word “soot.” It looks like it ought to rhyme with “suit,” but it doesn’t. “Soot” actually rhymes with “put” and “foot,” not with “suit” or “boot.” Still, that contrast made me laugh, and I thought there had to be a poem hiding inside that idea somewhere. So I first decided to call it “Soot Suit,” and then sat down to see what I could come up with. And this is the result, my newest holiday poem. Soot Suit When Santa came to visit us on Christmas Eve this year, his eyes were bright and merry and his face was full of cheer. He carried toys and presents in a sack upon his back. But Santa wasn’t dressed in red. Instead, his suit was black. Without his bright red coat and hat he looked a little weird. He also had some smudges on his cheeks and on his beard. We asked if he was trying out a new and different style. He looked down at his blackened suit then answered with a smile. He said, “My suit’s not really black, as maybe you could tell. It only looks that way because your chimney soots me well.” — Kenn Nesbitt

One question students often ask me is what my favorite “kind” of poem is. That is, they want to know if I like haiku or limericks or diamantes or some other type of poem best. The word poets use to describe these different kinds of poems is “form.” A form is kind of poem defined by a set of rules, which might include a certain rhyme scheme, number of lines, syllable count and so on. The truth of the matter is that I don’t normally write in poetic forms, but if I had to pick a favorite, it would either be a funny form like limericks or clerihews, or it would be the acrostic, where the first letters of each line spell out a word or phrase. With Thanksgiving Day (in the United States) coming soon, this week I was putting together a program on how to write “thankful” poems. One example I gave was a simple acrostic on the word “thanks.” I enjoyed that simple example enough that I decided to create a longer acrostic using the word “Thanksgiving,” listing things that you or I might be thankful for on Thanksgiving Day. I hope you enjoy it! Thanksgiving These are things I’m thankful for: Hugs from people I adore. Apple cider. Pumpkin pie. Next-door neighbors dropping by. Kicking balls around the yard. Singing, laughing, playing cards. Glasses clinking for a toast. Ice cream sundaes. Yummy roast. Visitors from out of town. Inside, children running ’round. Napping after food and play. Giving thanks, Thanksgiving Day.  — Kenn Nesbitt

Before we begin, there’s something I haven’t talked about very much. Most people assume I was born in the twentieth century and grew up like everyone else—going to school, learning poetry, all of that. But the truth is a bit more complicated. I’m actually from the year 3017. That’s right—thirty-seventeen. A full millennium in the future. Back home, time travel is fairly common. It’s not something people make a big fuss about, either. It’s more like catching bus. You can take a weekend trip to ancient Egypt, visit your great-great-great-great-grandparents, or hop forward to see how your favorite TV show eventually ends. Most time travelers don’t stay very long in the past, but I’ve always been curious. I wanted to see what life was like a thousand years ago, so I climbed into my trusty time machine and set the dial for the early 2000s. Unfortunately—well, I won’t spoil the poem—but let’s just say things didn’t go exactly as planned. What you’re about to hear is a completely accurate, totally factual account of what happened next. Some people think I wrote it as fiction, but I assure you: every word is true. And yes, time machines in the future are usually more reliable than this. My Time Machine Is Broken I came here from the future in my trusty time machine. I flew almost a thousand years from thirty-seventeen. I thought it would be fun to see the far-off distant past. It never had occurred to me this trip might be my last. But now I’m getting worried. It’s a serious concern. My time machine has broken down so now I can’t return. I traveled too far back in time, which now I quite regret, since time machine repair shops haven’t been invented yet. — Kenn Nesbitt

It’s the middle of autumn, and the weather is definitely changing. The leaves have mostly fallen from the trees, and it’s been cold and raining for the past few days where I live. I thought I’d write something about this change of seasons—but in a slightly unexpected way. This poem starts out as a simple bike ride through the park, but things take a strange turn once the weather begins to shift. Here is… Dark Park I went for a ride on my bike in the park. Some clouds started forming. It quickly got dark. The rain pounded down as the wind began blowing. The weather turned colder, and soon it was snowing. I shivered and shook as a blizzard was forming, and thunder and lightning were suddenly storming. I tried to escape, but my bike wouldn’t go. The wheels were both frozen and stuck in the snow. I jumped off my bike and ran out of the park. The sky was all sunny, not cloudy and dark. It’s really a puzzle why out here it’s nice, but inside the park it’s all snowbanks and ice. I’ve taken a breath, and I’m counting to ten, preparing myself to go back in again. I might sound insane, like a crazed maniac. I don’t really care, though— I want my bike back. — Kenn Nesbitt

It’s October, and the weather has finally started turning cold. The leaves are changing colors and beginning to fall, swirling and spinning in the breeze. I’ve already written a couple of Halloween poems this month, so I thought I’d do something a little different, something that simply celebrates the season itself. The idea for the ending of this poem came to me almost instantly, and I knew I had to write the whole thing just to build up to that moment. I hope you enjoy it. The Leaves Are Falling Of the Trees The leaves are falling off the trees. It’s fun to watch them whirl. It only takes the slightest breeze to make them swoop and swirl. They twist and spin, they dip and dance. Their flights are acrobatic. They do this yearly, not by chance; instead, it’s autumn-matic. — Kenn Nesbitt

I came up with the last word of this poem earlier this year. It’s what’s called a portmanteau word, which means a made-up word created by blending two real words together, like combining breakfast and lunch to make the word “brunch.” Now, at the time, it was the beginning of June, and writing a Halloween poem in the middle of spring didn’t make much sense. So I just jotted the word down in my notes and waited. Now that October is here, I thought it was the perfect time to see if I could turn that one silly word into a whole poem, and this is what I came up with. Sticky Sweet Trick-or-Treat I went trick-or-treating. I only got stuff with marshmallows in it or marshmallow fluff. My basket was filled up with Rice Krispies Treats, s’mores, Peeps, and Moon Pies, and other such sweets, like cocoa with marshmallows floating on top, a rocky road bar, and a marshmallow pop. I’m not sure what happened. I guess this must mean I went trick-or-treating on Marshmalloween. — Kenn Nesbitt

When October comes around each year, I love writing Halloween poems—especially about monsters, haunted houses, and trick-or-treating. Some of these poems are a little spooky, but most are just meant to be silly and fun, like this one. I started imagining what it might be like if Dracula and his monster friends hosted a Halloween celebration of their own. What would they do if you came knocking on their door? I hope you enjoy the answer. At Dracula’s Mansion At Dracula’s mansion, on Halloween night, the monsters are hiding inside, out of sight. They patiently wait till the moment is right, the moment you ring the front bell. They’ll throw the door open and put on a show, some magic in front of the pumpkins’ warm glow. And you’ll have a seat in the very front row as they cast their magical spell. The ghost will perform his new vanishing act. The witch will pull black rabbits out of her hat. Count Dracula simply turns into a bat as you’re bravely waiting for sweets. You might find it scary to be in this fix. But monsters… well, that’s the way they get their kicks. At Dracula’s mansion, they always do tricks, before they give out any treats. — Kenn Nesbitt

One of the things I’ve loved ever since I was a kid is playing with language; making up silly words, twisting familiar phrases, and asking questions that don’t always have logical answers. I grew up reading nonsense poems like “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll and “The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear, and I still remember the tongue twisters and silly songs my dad used to recite, like “Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear” and “Mairzy Doats.” Those kinds of playful poems and songs sparked something in me, and they’ve inspired many of the poems I’ve written since. A few nights ago, just as I was drifting off to sleep, a strange question popped into my head: If it’s a farmer’s job to farm and a teacher’s job to teach, is it a butler’s job to “butle?” It made me laugh so much that I grabbed my phone and jotted it down before I could forget. When I looked at it the next morning, I still thought it was fun. So I ran with it and turned it into a poem. I hope you enjoy the result as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s a Farmer’s Job to Farm It’s a farmer’s job to farm, and it’s a teacher’s job to teach. It’s a dancer’s job to dance, and it’s a preacher’s job to preach. But do butlers have to butle, and do barbers have to barb? Does a butcher have to butch, and does a harbor have to harb? Does a grocer have to groce, and does a doctor have to doct? Is a scholar’s job to schol, and is a proctor’s job to proct? Does a dollar have to doll and does the thunder always thund? If you know, then you’re a wonder, and your job must be to wond. — Kenn Nesbitt