childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
I Am the King
I am the King. I wear no crown,Yet every wind that stirs the downOf feathered birds or silent treesMust bow before my roaring seas.I do not bark—I roar, I reign.My throne is carved in wind and rain.The sun itself aligns its raysTo greet my dawn, to bless my days.I walk not fast, nor walk in fear,But every hoof and paw draws near.They whisper odes behind my back—Yet none dare plan a rebel's track.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
When Horror Came to Speak
He came with tales like coiling smoke,With fingers long as funeral notes.His eyes, two bottomless pits of dread,Where lost men fall and never tread.He sat by me — not near, but in,The horror of him not on his skin —But in his breath, in every sound,That reached my soul and spun it 'round.He whispered once, he whispered twice,Each word a wound, each tone like ice.He told of screams that no one hears,Of children born to silent fears.Of mirrors cracked not by the hand,But by the soul that could not standIts own reflection through the years —He showed me death, and called it peers.But I, a writer bold and bare,Have seen the ghosts that men can't bear.My pen is not a sword or wand —It is a mirror, cold and fond.It does not lie, it does not break,Though trembles in the quake of ache.I did not flinch; I did not kneel.I drank the dark and made it feel.For I have watched as others fell —Not into graves, but deeper hells:The hells of guilt, regret, and pride,Where laughter runs away to hide.I’ve seen men paint their love with lies,And call their truths a grand disguise.They bow to flesh, and mock the soul —And call the broken-hearted whole.The horror-man, he laughed at me,A hiss that echoed endlessly."You do not fear me — you are cursed,To see me clear, and feel me first.The ones who scream are not the doomed —It’s those who hear but still resumeTheir daily play of light and sin,That bear the rot that lies within.”Oh yes, I heard him. Loud and deep.He crawled inside the halls of sleep.But he found there a place too bright —My dreams are drawn in sacred light.For though I walk with death and pain,I do not dance within the chain.I see — I write — I bleed — I feel.But I do not pretend what’s real.He told me how the hearers change,How horror makes their logic strange.They build their houses out of dread,They wash with guilt, they dream of red.They stop to speak, to think, to try —And slowly let their moments die.Fear, he said, is not to scream.It is the theft of hope and dream.He told me of a girl who sleptWith every sorrow that she kept.Who looked into a cracked old glassAnd prayed her childhood wouldn’t pass.He told me of a mother tornBetween the man she loved and scorned.He told me of a priest who criedAt every “Amen” he denied.He gave me hell in every tale —And yet I stood, both firm and pale.He asked, “What makes you stand so still,While others break and flee my will?”I said, “You feed on minds unlit,On souls that hide, on hearts that quit.But I am not the one you seek —My strength was forged when I was weak.”He recoiled not in hate — but awe.As if a thing he couldn’t draw.I saw in him not hate, but need —To be believed, to be decreed.For horror has its own desire —To show the soul its secret fire.But I, the writer, did not burn —I wrote instead, and let it turn.And then he vanished like a sigh,Not with a bang, but soft goodbye.No claps of thunder marked the end,No screaming wind, no broken bend.But in my heart, he left a song —Of those who hear and yet stay strong.He cursed me once, then blessed me thrice —For hearing him — and not think twice.Let me speak now, to you, the Hearer:Do not think fear is just a face,It has a home in every place.In laughter, in a lover’s kiss,In every sacred thing you miss.It walks with you, it speaks in doubt,It lights your dreams and snuffs them out.But still — you choose what you obey,And what you write at end of day.I chose the ink, not blade or bell.I chose to know and not to dwell.To gather horror in my hand,And make it part of where I stand.For men are weak, and men are brave —And both are buried in one grave.It matters not if you are scared —But if you write while you are bared.And now, some truths for you to keep:The beauty man forgets in hasteIs always etched in what he faced.The faith he trades for fleeting gainReturns in dreams, with ghostly pain.The lies he tells to feel aliveBecome the tombs where truths don’t thrive.The love he gives, then takes away,Still waits for him — on judgment day.I have no fear of ghost or ghoul.I fear the heart that plays the fool.The man who loves and yet betrays.The child who learns the crooked ways.The preacher who forgets to pray.The artist who won’t walk the gray.The friend who speaks with hollow breath.The soul who’s lost the fear of death.He came again last night in dream,No longer dark, but silver gleam.He sat, not as a beast or bane,But like a storm that knows the rain.And I — I asked him, soft and clear,“What is it that you want from hearers?”He said, “Just this — to be believed.To show the wounds that man’s conceived.Not every ghost is dead and gone.Some live in flesh, in dusk and dawn.And if your pen can mark them true,Then horror’s task is done through you.”And so I write — with fire, not fright.To speak the dark and birth the light.I walk with horror not in chain,But as a shadow to explain.For every man must one day choose —To dance with death, or death refuse.And when the tale is writ and done,I’ll stand — the hearer who did not run.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
How I Learned Breakfast Tastes Better with a Side of Mischief
At dawn, I danced with golden light, A stolen pie, a sparrow’s flight. The baker yelled, the bird took wing— Oh, what joy the morning brings! It's five in the morning. The sun has yet to rise, but I am ready to take on the day. Skipping toward the kitchen, I grab a mango and carry it to the counter. After dicing it, I enjoy a bowl of juicy, sweet goodness. Leaving a note for Mom, I head outside. The streets are empty, and my echoing footsteps sound profound in the silence. The chilly breeze is soothing, but as I wander aimlessly, I start to feel a bit famished. By now, the sun has just begun to rise. Not wanting to miss this magical moment, I run toward the open field at the end of the street. Sitting on the cold, wet grass, I watch the sunrise. The chase of shadows and golden streaks is mesmerizing—no matter how many times I’ve seen it. I stay there until a grumble from my stomach reminds me I need a solid breakfast. As I get up to head back, a tantalizing scent hits me. Following my nose, I end up on the opposite side of the field, where a cozy bakery stands. In the window, I spot a freshly baked pie. Deciding instantly, I head inside. They’ve just opened—lucky me. The owner, a kind man, seems delighted to have a customer so early. I buy two slices of shepherd’s pie and sit by the window, savoring the view along with my meal. A few minutes in, I witness an amusing turn of events. A chubby sparrow—gray-bodied with bluish wings and a white underbelly—flies in and hides behind a pot, its gaze fixed on the steaming pie on the counter. Like a curious child, it looks both ways as if to say, The coast is clear, then flutters toward the pie. I can almost hear it thinking, Just one little bite. Then two. Then three—and I realize this tiny thief is about to gobble it all up. Just then, the baker appears, waving a spoon and yelling, “Hey! Pie thief!” The little bird darts toward a tree, a bite of pie still clutched in its beak. From my seat, I watch it savor the last morsel, as if declaring, Totally worth it. The other sparrows stare in awe, as though thinking, Legend. Have you had such an experience?
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
Threads Of The Self: A Biodigital Elegy
Summary: This poem explores the intersection of fashion, technology, and personal identity in a biodigital age. As garments become interfaces, and fabrics hold code, the poem reflects on how we construct and express our evolving selves through augmented clothing and digital skin. It contrasts organic memory with synthetic intelligence, questioning authenticity, transformation, and what it means to be “seen” in a hyperconnected world.
By Jacky Kapadiaabout a year ago in Poets
