A Tortilla Is Not a Frisbee
My Dentist's Nose
Call me Wild
Thing
I Fly
POEMS |
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A Tortilla Is Not a Frisbee |
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My Dentist's Nose |
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Call me Wild
Thing |
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I Fly |
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 The Boat |
 Airplane Poems |
(Legal Stuff at the bottom of the page. Want permission, just email me!)
"A tortilla is not a frisbee,"
That's what my father said.
Before I had to leave the table
And go upstairs to bed."A pencil's not a rocket,"
Said my teacher, Mr. Bell.
And sent me to the principal
To let her know as well."This house is not a toy store,"
Said grandma with a clap.
"Don't throw those antique pillows,
Keep hands folded in your lap.""A pie is not a UFO,"
Mom said, a little sore.
"Not only will you clean this up,
You'll wash the kitchen floor."I don't make them mad on purpose.
But no matter how I try,
They don't seem to understand
Some things were meant to fly.
©1995 Bruce Balan
Special thanks to Kim Schmitt of Kenosha, WI for helping me improve this poem.
My Cat Is Not Flat
My cat is not flat.
I know
'Cause I rolled
On top of him in my sleep.
He didn't creep
Quietly out from underneath.
He yowled and screeched.
He scratched and clawed.
Everywhere was fur and tail
And four cat paws.
I tried to get off
With a roll and a twist,
But then he hissed.
And bit my wrist.
And like a bullet tore
Out the door.
I had been fast asleep.
But wasn't anymore.
No, my cat's not flat.
I'm sure of that.
©1995 Bruce Balan
I asked Mom for a wolf suit.
I said to call me Max.
I begged her "call me Wild Thing."
But that’s not all I asked.I told her I’d make mischief
I’d yell "I’ll eat you up!"
And she should send me to my room
When she had had enough.She did just what I asked her,
Called "Max!" and "Wild Thing!"
Now I’m sitting in my bedroom
But nothing’s happening.A forest is not growing.
I see walls, not sea and sky.
No vines hang from my ceiling.
No ocean tumbles by.I haven’t seen a single boat,
Nor sailed for a night and day.
No Wild Things are rumpus-ing
And begging me to stay.I guess it’s time to go downstairs
Apologize, and then,
I’ll ask my mom for one more thing:
To read my favorite book again.
©1998 Bruce Balan
Wet Dog
My nose says "Dog".
It says "Wet Dog!"
My nose knows what it sniffs.
I trust my nose.
I know my nose
Can tell with just one whiff.It says "Watch out!"
It says "Look out!"
For somewhere close nearby
A dog that's soggy,
A sodden doggy,
Has got me in its eye.My nose says "Dog".
It says "Wet Dog!"
So I turn to look around,
When suddenly,
and drippingly,
I'm knocked down to the ground.My nose says "Snort!"
My mouth says "Blechh!"
My face says "Tongue!"
My chest says "Wet!"
My eyes stay closed
They stay closed tight!
But now I know…
My nose was right.
©1998 Bruce Balan
Swoop...
... and float.
Swoop...
... and float.
Over and down and around.I fly.
Curving back
I don't flapI fly.
Swoop...
... and float.
Swoop...
... and float.
Over and down and around.Up and up and up
so high…
Down and down and downI fly.
Hair streaming.
Eyes tearing.I fly.
Twisting, turning.
Gliding, diving.Swoop...
... and float
I swoop...
... and floatMe, just me
In the sky.I fly.
©1998 Bruce Balan
I didn’t want to be there,
sitting in the dentist chair
looking up at dentist hairs;
looking up at dentist hairs inside my dentist’s nose.But Mother said I had to go,
and the way Dad stared
—the way he glared—
I didn’t dare,
say no,
you know.So now I’m looking up at hairs;
looking up at hairs inside my dentist’s nose.
He’s sitting there, on his rolling stool.
My mouth is open, full of drool.
He’s only just begun!
Believe me, you know,
this isn’t fun.
I wish that he were done.So to pass the time
(and not be scared)
I count the hairs;
I count the hairs in my dentist’s nose.
Lying in the dentist chair
I drool
and spit
and squirm
and wince…
and rinse.And he sits,
my dentist sits
and lets me count
his hairs.
And when I have the whole amount,
I’ll let him know,
if he wants to know.
If he cares
how many hairs
are there.
Will he want to know?
I suppose.It’s his nose.
©2000 Bruce Balan
I have a boat.
It floats.
I hope.It's made of soap,
And a stick for a mast,
A napkin sail,
String for rope.
It will survive a gale,
My soap boat.
I hope.I painted it
Red and blue.
And on the sail
I drew
A special sign.
It's my design
So everyone knows it's mine.
This boat that floats.
I hope.I gave her a name,
Rolling Jane.
That's a good name
For sailing across the sea,
For a soap boat
that floats.
I hope.Knock, knock, knock.
I leave the boat at its dock.
Who's here?
My friends are here.
To cheer for my boat.
To help it sail.
To help it float.
I hope.I fill the tub
To the top
Then I stop.
We sing a song
To help along
My boat.
A sea song.
Then gently,
And slowly,
And carefully,
I lower Rolling Jane
(That's her name)
To the rolling sea.
So we can see
If my soap boat floats.
Please...
I hope...
Ohhh!Nope.
©1995 Bruce Balan
(Bottom of the Page Legal Stuff: All poems are copyrighted by Bruce Balan and may
not be used without permission.
But I'm really nice about giving permission, so just email me!)
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