childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
The Case of Vanishing Cookies
A sneaky little sparrow, So bold and so free, Stole cookies for breakfast— Now who’d disagree? I’m back at the bakery. After the last time, I wanted to see if the sparrow is a regular culprit here. So here I am, sitting in the bakery with a slice of shepherd’s pie, keeping an eye on the open window. I’m pretty sure the sparrow has a nest in the tree outside. The jolly old baker is humming a tune as he bakes the cookies—chocolate chip, yum. After putting the first batch on the counter to cool, he heads back to finish the rest. When the baker returns, he adds the cookies to the cardboard boxes. The boxes sit on the counter, filled with treats, but I still don’t see the culprit. The baker goes back to kneading the dough—when it happens. The sparrow flies in, landing on an empty cardboard box. Turning his little head, he decides what to have for breakfast. He hops onto the box with cookies, grabs one in his beak, and flies away. But it doesn’t stop there—he flies in again, snatching another cookie. In total, three cookies disappear, leaving only one behind in the box. When the baker returns, the confusion and disbelief on his face are clear. I have to pinch myself to keep from bursting into laughter. I guess my question is answered—the sparrow is a regular here.
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
Little Hands, Big Plans
It’s noon, and I’m on my way to pick up my older nephew from kindergarten. Stopping in front of the gates, I spot him—the blue whale bag with squiggly eyes gives him away in the horde of kids. After picking him up, I take him to the car. His incessant chattering doesn’t stop until we reach home. The moment I open the door, he dashes inside. Kids and their never-ending energy levels. While he freshens up, I decide to make spaghetti for lunch—a bowl for me, a bowl for my little nephew, and the rest for the family when they return. I leave the table once my nephew rubs his stuffed belly. Meanwhile, I need to tame my hair—the heat is turning it into a wild mess. I turn on the baby monitor to keep an eye on my nephew. Everything seems fine at first: he’s playing with his pet cat, both dressed in matching hoodies. But my instincts tingle—something’s up. As I spray my hair, I notice my nephew and the cat sneaking into the kitchen. What mischief are they up to now? While combing my hair, I keep watching the screen. The duo pads barefoot into the kitchen, glancing around—clearly searching for something. The cookie jar—of course. He tries standing on his tiptoes, but even then, he can’t peek over the counter. The cat, however, peeks over easily, eyes locked on the prize. Working together, they stack a few books and a pillow into a makeshift tower. (Why they added the rubber ducky, I have no idea.) My nephew points at the jar, and—as if the cat understands—it climbs the tower. But its stubby arms send the cookie jar tumbling to the floor. Thankfully, it’s plastic. The tower collapses. The hood falls off. And now? They’re sitting on the floor, each happily munching on a cookie. Mission accomplished. I really hope this was recorded—I have to show it to my brother. Are your nephews like this too? Tiny toes and kitty paws, Sneaking past the kitchen doors. Stacking books to reach up high— Crash! The jar falls from the sky! Now they munch, crumbs on their faces, Two small bandits, swapping races. Next time, hide the sweets with care— This duo’s everywhere!
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
No Face
I’m a man with no name No face My mind disconnected My heart lost in space A fantastic phantom animating atoms 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
The Pea Who Wanted to Be a Tree. AI-Generated.
In the back garden of an old brick cottage, where bees hummed like sleepy violins and dandelions tickled your ankles, there grew a line of cheerful pea plants. They climbed little sticks like eager acrobats, their green tendrils curling and stretching toward the sky.
By Kelsey Thornabout a year ago in Poets
