childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
The Last Conversation We Never Had
Story The Last Conversation We Never Had I should have said it when we were sitting on that cracked bench in the park, your scarf fluttering in the spring breeze, and I kept staring at you like I’d never see you again. I didn’t know then that I wouldn’t. I thought there would always be tomorrow, another chance to speak, another quiet moment where the world softened enough to hold us both.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Poets
When the Sky Whispered My Name. AI-Generated.
I. The Night That Would Not Sleep That night, the moon bent low. It hung like an old companion leaning closer, as if to hear the weight of my sighs. I had been awake for hours, but it was not coffee or noise that kept me from sleep — it was my own heart, tugging at me like a child too restless to rest. I sat by the window, the world outside still and breathless, the stars scattered like a thousand unanswered questions. There was a time I believed that every prayer would be answered quickly, that my whispers would rise to the heavens and come back dressed as blessings. But now… I was not sure if I still deserved to be heard. --- II. The Ache Beneath the Words My laughter, once bright, was buried under layers of unspoken thoughts. I had carried burdens I never confessed, for fear that speaking them aloud would make them more real. The silence between my words grew heavy — so heavy that I mistook it for abandonment. I thought perhaps the world had turned its face from me. Or worse, maybe I had turned mine first, slowly, without even noticing, until my prayers became more routine than longing. --- III. The Whisper It was then that I whispered, almost afraid of the sound of my own voice: "Ya Allah… are You still listening?" There was no thunder, no sudden opening of the clouds, no vision of angels descending. Only the wind. A soft breath against my cheek, carrying the scent of rain — not the harsh kind that beats against the earth in anger, but the kind that falls like an embrace, gentle enough to be missed if you are too busy looking elsewhere. The wind said nothing. And yet, it said everything. --- IV. The Language of the Sky I remembered something I had once read: "The Friend never leaves — it is you who forgets to visit." Perhaps the silence was not absence, but an invitation. I began to notice the details — how the clouds moved with patience, how the stars held their place in quiet obedience, how the moon poured its light without ever asking for thanks. The sky, in its vastness, was a mirror of the mercy I had doubted. It was as if each star was a verse, each breeze a reminder, each shadow a place for me to kneel. --- V. Returning I closed my eyes, not to shut the world out, but to let the words in. And from somewhere deeper than thought, the prayer came: "Rabbi ishrah li sadri, wa yassir li amri…" (My Lord, expand my chest, and make my task easy for me…) I let the words roll in my mouth like water after thirst. No demand. No deadline. Just surrender. In that moment, I understood that even the unanswered prayer is not unanswered — it is simply answered in a language my impatience cannot yet translate. --- VI. The Lesson the Moon Taught Me The moon did not speak in my language, yet I knew its meaning: Stay. Wait. Trust. Faith is not built in the moments when the answer is clear, but in the nights when it is not. Love is not proven by the gift received, but by the patience of the one who waits. The mercy I sought had never been far; I had only been looking with eyes that measured blessings by their immediacy instead of their depth. And when the wind brushed my face again, I no longer asked if He was listening. I knew. --- VII. Moral Reflection We often treat prayer as a transaction — I ask, and You give. But the deeper truth, the one the sky whispered to me, is that prayer is a relationship. The delay is not denial; the silence is not absence. It is in the waiting that hearts are softened, and in the stillness that faith is purified. That night, the moon did not just shine — it spoke. The wind did not just blow — it answered. And my heart, once restless and heavy, found the kind of peace that needs no proof to be real.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
