Have you considered writing for children?
That is a question I have heard more than once and the answer is always yes. Yes indeed I have considered it but considering is a far cry from accomplishing.
I wrote a poem last year for my grandson when our fancy goldfish died because (as I explained to him) this sort of thing gets the creative juices flowing and writing can be very therapeutic.
(From Interior Verse PLUS Pose Prose & Poems)
Little shubunkin all silver and pumpkin
with calico dotted on scales
You streak through the water
no teeter or totter fanning your cute tiny tale
You race and you turn but the water don’t churn
never so much as a swish
I’ll miss you shubunkin, your dashin’ and dunkin’
but oh what a sweet taco dish
I thought he would find it entertaining instead he cried and said “that’s not funny Nana and I don’t feel better.” Oops, my bad.
This same grandson loves the Skippyjon books by Judith Schachner so when he had finished mourning the goldfish he asked, “Can you write something like Skippyjon Jones and make him be a pirate?” I of course wanted to rectify the damage I had done so I quickly penned him another little poem.
(From Short Stories& Such)
In the house where he lived void of laughter and kisses
In the room where he smoked and the little dog pisses
Where the ghost of a bloke stirs a foul reminiscence
Lies the frame of a maimed Skippy Red
Go down, go down poor Skippy Red
Alas, alas no water to tread
No ropes, no planks, no breaking of bread
In your world of endless abysses
Go on, go on let sleeping dogs lie
A new crib for you, twas a good day to die
Hoist a fresh cup, here’s spit in your eye
Abaddon is better off dead
Farewell, farewell Skippy Red
Well… Dang it!! I struck out again! Being scolded by a seven year old for saying piss is a shameful experience but at least he didn’t cry.
I wanted to impress him with my literary accomplishments be a good grandmother so I scribbled a few more verses. Judging from the look on his face each one was worse than the one before so after a few hours I untied him. He rubbed his little wrists, shook his head and walked away. At that point I had to be honest with myself and admit …
My grandson may have been switched at birth.