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​Pirates and Spooks, Beware!


​written by Susan Weiner
illustrated by Bobbie Kogok
​​from Belle Isle Books

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​Shiver me timbers! Pirates and parrots, mummies and mermaids—get ready for these fun and funky creatures to tickle your funny bone and send a chill down your spine! Between the lines of these eerie poems, a lady pirate fights her battles in stolen ball gowns, a cannibal decides to become a vegetarian, and a ghost hitches a ride in the family car. You’d better get started: it’s all hands on deck!


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This Winter, Reintroduce Them to Poetry All Over Again!

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Because Poetry is not dead!
It is alive and kicking
And just begging to be read-
In the classroom, 
Sometimes now and again,
​And, of course, even right before bed.
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​Sneak Peek Inside the Book:
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The Thing


A Thing is a Thing, you must always remember,
Whether late in spring or early December.

A Thing's got fur that tickles its feet,
And it slurps up sodas that spill in the street.

A Thing, oh, a Thing's barely two feet high,
With vision gone bad in one bright red eye.

It makes rackets in closets in the dark of night,
As it snuffles for socks with delicious delight.

A Thing's got a nose like an elephant's snout,
And it sniffles for clothes you leave lying about,

Because to a Thing, laundry is tasty as cheese.
(Beneath a dusty bed you may hear it sneeze.)

Now, a Thing's the color of root beer fizzes,
But it hates to read books and fails all quizzes.

With its eye that wobbles like the ground in Peru,
It dines on sneakers, a most delectable shoe.

Things are followed by starlets in disguise,
For in fashion and gowns, a Thing is wise,

Yet a Thing loves silk taffeta best of all.
If you catch it stealing, it may start a brawl.

Therefore, stuff that's lost in the washing machine
Is never really gone, as it may be seen:

From closets to wash, a Thing never ceases,
For a Thing finds your stuff and chews it to pieces. 
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​The Last Words of Pirate La Feet
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These words are the last of Pierre La Feet,
A dreaded pirate who haunts your street:
I have matted hair and blood shot eyes.
Best hide in sheets as I arrive.

Oh, I be the dreaded Pirate La Feet
With the dagger of vengeance sweet.
For the villain who pinched my gold,
I'll search 'til seas be glum and old.

On squally nights, I seek my treasure
Of lost doubloons you cannot measure.
I was robbed of rings that shone like stars
And masses of heavy, golden bars.

Oh, how my emeralds used to shine
And fill me more than draught of wine.
Curse the day my wealth was gone
And my pirate chest showed only dawn . . . .

The Lady Pirate
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My rouge is a pretty, soft poppy red,
And a towering wig sits atop my head.
My gown’s a brocade of celestial blue
So thick the bullets cannot pierce through.

My bustle is tied with bows and lace,
And I sneak with a certain stealthy grace.
​I place my feet just so, here and there.
When I pass by, all the gentlemen stare.

I’m a pirate lady by day and by night.
My blade and I never flee from a fight.
I wear a pink sash set across my chest,
With knives and pistols at my breast.

Oh, Tortuga nights, where the palm trees are
And ships run adrift on the white sand bar.
Oh, Tortuga nights, where the pirates brawl
And duels are held at the governor’s ball.

Tortuga nights follow Tortuga days,
Where treasure is stashed near turquoise bays,
And pirates take the hearts of tavern girls                                     
​With pure, white strands of oyster's pearls . . . . 
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A Pirate's Ode to Adventure


Let lightning crack and thunder rumble away,
While storm clouds billow in purple and gray,
Merchants of the deep, tell your children to pray,
For I prowl past the tumult of the bay.

Oh, there are heaps of gold to satisfy my heart,
Star-bright gems that collectors call art,
And places not found on a nautical chart.
So, swing that sword if you're daring of heart.

Why, the ocean's monsters live in the deep.
Beyond the sun, where the wobbegong weep,
Lobsters and starfish on the stippled sands creep
In the green kelp forests of Davy Jones' keep . . . .
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This Year, Give Them a Little Culture Again.



Hungry in the Jungle


Oh, I was born a cannibal
With great, big giant teeth.
And a palm branch twined with vines
Is what I dine beneath . . . . 
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 [But] I'm a vegetarian, and 
The cannibal king can't understand
Why I croon to alligators
Who snooze upon the sun-warmed sand . . . .

If, by the mangrove leaf, you see me,
Your really needn't turn and run.
I don't devour lords or princes,
Or gnaw on pirates just for fun.

It's that bib and grass-green lettuce
I like to stuff into my tarts,
But I prefer to boil, brine, and pickle
All chopped-up artichoke hearts . . . .
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