childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
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By Baby Shopper12 months ago in Poets
“When Sidewalks Were Castles”
When sidewalks were castles and chalk was our crown, We ruled over kingdoms from block to playground. The skies held our secrets in clouds drifting by, And puddles were portals to blue-buttoned skies. We chased after summers on sun-dappled feet, With shoelaces trailing and ice cream half-eaten. Each scraped knee a medal, each freckle a prize, We dared every moment, with wide-open eyes. Tree forts were towers where dreams took their flight, And bedtime was battle with stars in the night. We whispered of monsters, then giggled with glee, For nothing could harm us—not under that tree. Our pockets held marbles, or maybe some string, A pebble, a feather, a lost plastic ring. The treasures of childhood, so simple, so small— But oh, how they mattered, when we were so tall. Now years blur like water on sidewalk chalk lines, But I still hear echoes in childhood’s confines. So here’s to the laughter, the dirt, and the sun— The best kind of magic is made when you're young.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Poets
Poem: The Anthem of Lovers
You are the rose that blooms within my heart, Reviving hope and easing all my pain. You dwell in me, from me you’ll never part, You are my peace, my joy, my sweetest chain. Your eyes, like mirrors of the boundless skies, Shine with a glow more pure than diamond’s gleam. I wandered seas of beauty, seeking ties, Until your love fulfilled my every dream. I shed my tears of love on letters sent, To moonlit skies, where silent longing grew. The gentle moon returned with sweet consent, “Your love shall rise again,” it softly knew. Love is a flame that melts the frozen soul, Yet sweet — the pain it gives, the scars it makes. What harm to hearts that burn to be made whole? Love’s pain creates the dawn that never breaks. You are the breath of morning in my chest, The scent that brings forgotten joy anew. A whisper soft as winds that once caressed The silver bells where dreams like music flew. I loved in you all that I’d never known, About my soul, before your eyes were mine. I thought your being was my very own, And life without you — death, by slow decline. You live within my veins, as ink and fire, The blood of poems, pulse of my desire. How could the stars still shine if you depart? How could my soul find rest when you’re away? I never knew that love would be my art, Until my heart surrendered to your sway. I stand within love’s sea, in silence bound, By passion’s chains, by longing’s endless sound. O night! Your shadow brings her image near, And floods my heart with beauty and with fear. I yearn in silence, though I know the cost — A lover crying for the love he’s lost. I hide my passion deep within my chest, Lest people see my heart and mock my quest. Yet still I dream of you in every place, Your face the moonlight of my lonely space. Sweet memory calls with gentle, fleeting tone, Of times when love was ours — and ours alone. I drank from passion’s cup, a sacred wine, That made my sorrow sing and pain divine. O could there be a path that leads to you, So clear, so straight, so free from all disguise? But love’s a road of thorns that pierce anew, Yet still we walk it, foolish but so wise. I saw in love a message carved in flame, Upon the heart’s cold wall, it wrote your name. Its sighs became the perfume of the air, Reviving hearts that once forgot to care. I loved the silence when your eyes would speak, A speech more soft than any words could seek. I dwelled within each letter that you spoke, Each sound a spark that through my longing broke. Ask not if I could love another’s light — For you are breath, and all my soul’s delight. You are my poem’s birth and its release, I am the story love will never cease. O flower of days, O star of endless night, O hope that shines beyond my mortal sight. I swear my love shall live in secret flame, Hidden, but faithful, constant in your name. Deny me not — my tears are proof and plea, For truth in love is all I wish to be. Between my heart and yours a language flows, That only lovers and the angels know. You dwell in verses like a dream’s soft tone, A child’s pure vision, tender and alone. Love is the birth of poems when they rise, The soul’s own flower under yearning skies. If you are gone, my song will cease to live, My lips grow cold, with nothing left to give. Yet I accept the pain, for love’s true way Is built from tears that cleanse what words can’t say. O source of feeling, I’m a poet bare, Who knows no rhythm when you’re not there. Without your eyes, my poems lose their flame, Their soul, their rhythm, and their name. For every letterorn
By America today about a year ago in Poets
Whispers Above the Clouds
Whispers Above the Clouds A Rainy Day Reflection with Tea on the Mountain's Crown The sky leans low with a silver frown, As raindrops kiss the mountain's crown. I sit where earth and heavens meet, Tea in hand, the silence sweet. Clouds drift like thoughts I’ve left behind, Their edges frayed, their paths unsigned. Each sip a warmth against the chill, Each breath a moment standing still. No roads below can reach me here, Where wind and whisper both are clear. The world fades soft, the rush undone— A poem steeped in mist and sun. Ink runs slow on dampened page, As nature turns another age. Yet in this rain, in sky so wide, A quiet joy begins to rise. For what is life, if not a climb, With moments like this, lost in time? Above the noise, above the crowds— I found my soul among the clouds.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
Whispers on the Wind
Whispers on the Wind Rainfall and Reverie at the Mountain's Crown I climbed where silence wears the sky, Where clouds and cliffs in stillness lie, Each breath a hymn, each step a prayer, Above the noise, beyond despair. The rain began—a soft ballet, Its silver threads in gentle sway, No thunder roared, no storm was near, Just whispered truths I came to hear. The wind, it spoke in ancient tones, Of moss on stone and weathered bones, Of suns that rose, of stars long gone, Of all that passes, yet lives on. Below, the world in shadow slept, Its dreams in folded valleys kept. But here, where earth and heaven blend, I felt beginnings, not the end. Each raindrop kissed my lifted face, A quiet blessing, a small grace. Not lost, but found without a sound— In rain, in sky, on sacred ground. So if you seek what can't be taught, Where storms bring peace, not battles fought, Then climb the path, and let rain spin Its whispers on the mountain wind.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
Whispers in the Rain
Whispers in the Rain: How Rain Inspires the Rhythm and Beauty of Poetry Rain has always held a special place in the hearts of poets. It’s more than just water falling from the sky; it’s a symphony of sounds, a dance of droplets, and a muse that awakens creativity. For centuries, poets have found inspiration in the gentle patter of rain, weaving its rhythm into their verses and using its presence to evoke emotion, hope, and renewal. On a quiet afternoon, Maya sat by her favorite window, a worn notebook open on her lap and a pen poised in her hand. Outside, the sky was a soft gray, and the first drops of rain began to fall. There was a unique magic in this moment—the world slowing down, the steady rhythm of raindrops tapping against the glass, and the fresh, earthy scent that followed the rain’s arrival. Maya loved rain. It wasn’t just the way it cooled the air or the way it made the world look like a watercolor painting; it was how the rain seemed to whisper stories. Every drop was a word, every shower a stanza, inviting her to listen and write. As the rain intensified, the room filled with its soothing melody. Maya’s pen moved almost by itself, sketching lines that captured the essence of the rain’s song: “A thousand tiny dancers falling from the sky, whispering secrets as they pass by.” The rain, she realized, was like poetry itself—both unpredictable and comforting, simple and profound. It spoke of renewal, washing away the dust of yesterday and nurturing the seeds of tomorrow. Just as a poem uses words to bring emotions to life, the rain used droplets to awaken the earth. Throughout history, many poets have shared Maya’s affection for rain. From the delicate haikus of Matsuo Bashō to the passionate verses of Pablo Neruda, rain has been a recurring symbol—sometimes a metaphor for sadness or longing, sometimes a sign of hope and new beginnings. It bridges the gap between nature and human emotion, inviting us to pause, reflect, and feel. Maya’s favorite poem about rain was by Langston Hughes, who wrote: “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” These words echoed in Maya’s mind as she wrote. The rain wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a companion in her creative journey, encouraging her to open her heart and express her deepest thoughts. Outside, the rain slowed to a gentle drizzle, and sunlight began to peek through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the wet streets and glistening leaves. Maya closed her notebook, feeling grateful for the gift the rain had given her—a quiet moment of inspiration and connection. She stepped outside, letting the cool droplets fall on her face. Each drop felt like a tiny blessing, reminding her that even in the stormiest times, there is beauty and hope. The world was alive, refreshed, and ready to grow, just like her poetry. In that moment, Maya understood that rain and poetry share a timeless bond. Both invite us to listen deeply—to the world around us and to the feelings within us. Both teach us that there is grace in vulnerability, strength in softness, and power in expression. As she walked back inside, Maya carried with her the rain’s message: to embrace every moment, to find joy in the simple things, and to keep writing her own story—one drop, one word, one poem at a time.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
The Pain
If I do not change I only have myself to blame For I am who I am Because of the pain Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
