childrens poetry

Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.

The First Kiss of a New Dawn
In the quiet hum of the breaking day, Where shadows linger, yet fade away, I felt the touch of something new, A spark, a light—so pure, so true.
By Masood Zahidabout a year ago in Poets
Falling Forward in the Dark
I stumbled first, then lost my way, Each step a bruise, each breath a sway. The darkness wrapped its cold embrace, A never-ending, shadowed race.
By Masood Zahidabout a year ago in Poets
The Man with the Doors
He came at dusk with silent tread, His steps like whispers of the dead. No face beneath his hood was seen, Just shadows stitched in ash and green. He bore no name, no tale, no past, Just doors behind him, closing fast. They sprouted in the air he crossed, Some made of fire, some rimmed in frost. His hands were locks, his fingers keys, His voice a rustling autumn breeze. He hummed a tune the old forgot, A song of time, a truth long caught. Upon his back a heavy chest, With carvings old and latches blessed. The runes upon it pulsed and glowed, Like memories no mind had owed. He wandered through the sleeping town, While lanterns flickered, burning down. Each street he passed, a door appeared— Some glowed with hope, some wept with fear. Children peeked from curtained eyes, And whispered myths in lullaby. "He's the one who walks with fate, Opens doors and seals your state." They said he knew the way to dreams, Through twisted halls and haunted seams. A path of riddles, dark and steep, Where even shadows dare not sleep. Some doors would hum and draw you near, Some fed on joy, some swallowed fear. And those who dared to cross the line Would vanish past the edge of time. A woman once with silver hair Stepped forth with eyes that didn’t care. She’d seen too much, had lost her name, And whispered to the man, “I came.” He pointed toward a crooked gate, Whose hinges groaned beneath their weight. It bore no keyhole, lock, or sign— Yet pulsed like some forgotten spine. She touched the frame and passed within, The air grew cold, the world grew thin. She vanished like a prayer unsaid, And left behind her shadow’s thread. The townsfolk waited every night, To watch his silhouette in light. Some offered coins, or songs, or cries, Some begged for truth, or healing lies. He spoke to none, but doors replied— With creaks and winds that prophesied. Each soul that came, he did not sway, Just gave the door and stepped away. One night a man with sins too deep Came forth from where regrets still weep. His back was bent, his hands were stained, His voice was guilt, his heartbeat chained. He begged, “Please let me choose once more, I’ve shut too many sacred doors.” The Locksmith nodded, slow and grim, Then gave a door that sang to him. Its frame was made of shattered vows, Its knob a mirror for broken brows. He turned it once, and once again, Then disappeared from world and men. And so the man with doors moved on, As stars blinked out and moons were gone. He never aged, he never changed, But left the world a little strange. In alleys now where silence grows, The air still hums, the cold wind blows. And once a year, when time is weak, He walks again where dreamers seek. But knock with care, and speak with truth, For he despises shallow proof. No bargain thrives on empty breath— He deals in loss, in fate, in death. His doors are trials, his locks are tests, He keeps what aches in broken chests. No maps to find him, no bright flame— Just whisper softly your true name. If he hears, you’ll find your gate, But not your self, nor past, nor fate. You’ll enter worlds that never end, Where time itself forgets to bend. They say he waits beyond all things, In silent halls where sorrow sings. A keeper of the in-between, The guardian of what might have been. So should you knock, knock once—not twice, For second knocks demand a price. And once you walk beyond his floor— You are the door, and nothing more.....
By FKGabout a year ago in Poets
I am an act of rebellion
Tales of long-lost love, where a princess yearns for a man’s plea To be redeemed for her desolation, waiting for someone who sets her soul free.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
Fruit Picking from Backyard
That was my growing-up years— backyard with ample fruit trees. laden with guava, orange, mango, papaya, java plum, rose apple,
By Seema Patelabout a year ago in Poets
a child of God. Content Warning.
A Child of God I am a child, His hand to hold, A love so deep, a heart of gold. Through storm and sea, through joy and pain,
By walugembe ronaldabout a year ago in Poets
Good Friendship: The Foundation of a Meaningful Life
In a world that often moves too fast and feels increasingly digital, good friendship remains one of the most grounding and enriching aspects of human experience. It goes beyond casual conversations or shared interests—good friendship is built on trust, support, and mutual respect. It's not just about having someone to laugh with; it's also about having someone who will support you through difficult times and share in the good times. Authenticity is the foundation of any good friendship. Rare and valuable are friends who are real with one another and who are able to talk openly and honestly without fear of being judged. Sincerity of this kind fosters profound connection and comprehension. You are not required to play it up, impress, or conceal your flaws. A genuine friend accepts you for who you are. Consistency is another characteristic of good friendship. A good friend is not just around when things are easy or fun—they’re there through the difficult seasons too. A real friend checks in and reminds you that you are not alone when you are going through personal loss, work stress, or just feeling lost. Although they may not always have the right words, their presence alone is reassuring. Respect for one another is another important factor. Even when they don't agree with each other completely, good friends respect each other's boundaries, values, and choices. They listen to understand rather than respond or argue. Giving and receiving are in balance. Emotionally, mentally, and sometimes even physically, both friends contribute. When one is down, the other lifts them up, and as is common in life, the roles can change. Friendships are built on loyalty over time. True friendships endure despite life's changes—people move, careers change, families expand. You can pick up right where you left off, as if nothing has happened, even if you don't speak the same language every day or live in the same city. That comfort and familiarity are signs of a bond that runs deep.
By Afran Noorabout a year ago in Poets
The Spider and the Fly
اک دن کسی مکھی سے یہ کہنے لگا مکڑا اس راہ سے ہوتا ہے گزر روز تمہارا One day a spider said to a fly in a gentle way, "You pass this path so often, yet never stop or stay."
By Ahmad Dostabout a year ago in Poets
“The Colorful Human”
“The Colorful Human” In your story, The mind is my diwana. In love with robbery, Visab Kupokat. Start new in the twilight,
By Jr. Majahabout a year ago in Poets
The Shape of Joy
Her fingers curled around my thumb— not out of reflex, but like she knew I needed holding too. A half-sleep smile brushed my chest, soft as breath, gone as quickly as it came. She pressed her cheek against me, the way stars press into sky— weightless, certain, at home. Joy spoke in morning babble, in ceiling fans turned wonder, in giggles breaking through the fog of sleepless hours. It lived in the stillness between tasks, in the moment I didn’t record but fully felt. Joy is learning to sit, to see the world from new angles, to say mama without saying a word. And me— I am learning too, that even in the ache, we are growing something holy.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
Midair, Midlaugh, Midfall
There’s something holy in the arc— a rise, a fall, a whispered spark. The wind against my open face feels like I’ve slipped back into grace.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
Whimsical Games
What if I am in midlife, I believe in keeping the subconscious, subpersonality inner child alive. For if she is happy, I am on the right path,
By Seema Patelabout a year ago in Poets