Tag Archives: children’s poetry

hot air pairings

the greens and blues,


with mes and yous


these things are true …


the wheres, the whose,


the whats, left clues;


time can’t undo,


what’s laid, what grew.


the dusks, the dews,


the lights, the hues.


the sun, the moon,


with you seemed new.


the songs, the tunes,


the ocean’s bloom …


let’s both escape


on this balloon.



Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

Talking to your food

is not a sign

of mental illness …

most of all

he gets a pass

because he’s four

and just because

he talks to his food

how do those

who took these notes

know exactly

how it’s going on

from where he sits

how do they know

that in his mind

he’s not thanking

the potatoes for

being so delicious

and that in his heart

he knows that

while whole potatoes

may have eyes

you have to speak

kind of loud

to thank them

because they lack ears

and do not always

pay attention.

I think people

might learn a thing or two

if they had a conversation

with their food.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

Invitation to Entropy

I don’t understand why you aren’t

as famous as your cousin gravity.

Your work in closed systems,

while leading to breakdowns,

doesn’t always mean calamity.

The way you use heat and light

to translate what is now

to what is possible,

is a testament to your creativity.

What you need is a better agent …

and since we’ve known each other

my whole life, I was thinking,

why don’t you start working for me?

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

Tiger logic

Excuse me,

I’m a tiger

says my youngest son

crossing the kitchen.


He knows enough

to crouch low

and settles down

safely sitting behind

the breakfast table.


I flip the pancakes

as the bubbles pop

silently through the

hot batter sprinkled

with cinnamon that

fills the morning air.


Excuse me,

once again,

says the tiger,

but as you know

if you keep turning

your back to me

I will have to attack

because that’s

what tigers do.


I crack eggs

into a black skillet

and warn my son

that it’s dangerous

to fool around

when there are hot

things on the stove

and besides tigers

are afraid of fire.


He reminds me

that we have an

electric range that

makes heat but no

fire and besides

he wouldn’t have

to attack if breakfast

had been ready earlier.


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

After Father’s Day

I helped my sons

a few weeks ago

make a card with

flowers cut from

colorful construction

paper and peppered

with pictures of

them being cute

as babies can be.


Today is supposed

to be my day

and I expect to

be doing many

more things to

show them how to

be good boys and

maybe great men.


There is no sunshine

again but the rain

has taken a break

when we go out

my boys and me

and start blowing

bubbles that last a

mighty long time.


We laugh when

they burst and marvel

at how big some get.

The little one likes

the dancing colors

on the skins,

the older one loves

splitting them in half.


A few bubbles dare

to land on the evergreens

that border our

house and stay long

enough for us to take

pictures that will

make great Christmas

cards this year.


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.


Unicorn burgers and unicorn franks,

Unicorn sweaters and unicorn pants,

Unicorn hats and gloves came together,

Both beautifully made of unicorn leather.

Unicorn belts and unicorn shoes,

Unicorn horns made into musical flutes,

Unicorn tails and unicorn hooves,

Both lucky charms, but that’s half a truth.

Unicorns used to sing such great songs,

But there are so many uses for unicorns,

And that’s why,

That’s why the unicorn’s gone.

© 2008 henry toromoreno



Pseudonym and Alias

alias and pseudonym

Alias and Pseudonym

met in secrecy

Pseudonym told Alias,

“I hear you tried to pass as me.”

“Ridiculous”, said Alias,

“That rumor is absurd.

The truth my friend

is more different than

anything you’ve heard.”

“Just recently,” said Alias,

“someone employed me,

to obfuscate, then recreate,

their identity.”

“So what,” said Pseudonym,

“I thought that was our job,

we’ve been doing this for quite a while

we both know it’s not hard.”

“That’s not the point,” said Alias,

“when I walked in the room,

they turned to see, that it was me

and called me, “Nom, de plume”

Said Pseudonym, now reticent,

That name belongs to me.

It’s French my friend, a moniker

that suits me quite sublimely.”

“May I suggest,” said Alias,

“though it may be a pain,

that from now on, we correspond

but take on different names.”

© 2008 henry toromoreno