childrens poetry
Nostalgia-inducing poetry inspired by our earliest favorites; from Dr. Seuss to Mother Goose, children’s poetry is all grown up.
The Forge of Silent Writers
The Forge of Silent Writers In the heart of a quiet town stood a small, amber-lit library where few people ever came, And fewer ever stayed. Yet, inside that stillness, a rare flame glowed every evening, For three men gathered there not to talk much, But to create worlds out of words.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
The Symphony of Quiet Pens
The sun rested just above the horizon like a shy dream, spreading golden warmth across the old park. The air smelled of wildflowers and morning dew, and the tall trees whispered their gentle secrets. On a quiet stone bench near the lake sat a young poet named Ayan, holding a notebook that was emptier than his mind. He dreamed of writing something beautiful—something meaningful—but inspiration slipped through his thoughts like sand through uncertain hands.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
The Hearth of Hidden Lines
In a town where voices whisper More than anyone ever shouts, There stands a hall of quiet verses Tucked between houses and cobblestone routes. Not a theater with roaring echoes, Not a market where traders rhyme, But a hearth where hidden lines awaken, Slowly rising, one word at a time.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
The Room of Shared Questions
There is a small room at the top floor of the city’s communication center. It is not crowded, not decorated with glamorous posters, and not filled with busy noise. Instead, it is filled with something more powerful—curiosity. People here do not come to shout their opinions; they come to share their voices, and sometimes even discover them for the first time. This place is known by the community as The Room of Shared Questions, where interviewers and interviewees meet with open ears and honest hearts.
By Spotlight stories 2 months ago in Poets
The Gentle Society of Ink
In the heart of a quiet village, beside a dusty road that curved like a forgotten sentence, stood an old banyan tree. Its branches stretched wide like arms welcoming tired souls. Under that shade, every evening, men gathered not to gossip, not to argue, but to write poetry. They called themselves The Gentle Society of Ink.
By EchoVerse Poet2 months ago in Poets
The Hall of Echoed Voices
In a quiet corner of the town, beyond the marketplace of noise and beyond the restless rush of streets, stood a hall as modest as a whisper and as wise as a century. The people called it The Hall of Echoed Voices, but poets called it home.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
